Calling All Souls
by kysis-the-bard
Summary: Alessa has been stolen from Silent Hill, and Valtiel, her angel, will stop at nothing to bring her back. Mark, a fallen detective, and Sydney, an aspiring teacher get drawn into the middle. Please R&R!
1. Killing Angels

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill. Konami does. I do not own any characters associated with Silent Hill, or any of that stuff. I just write this fanfic.

**Warning:** violence, mature themes, death, blood and gore, etc etc. The same warnings as the games, and is rated MATURE for a reason.

**Author's Note:** I've tried writing this story before and failed miserably. This is my fourth attempt, and I am doing it for LDWriMo (Lemon-Drops Writer's Month) in hopes of getting more than a few sections out of it. I tried doing this as a RP as well, but then E-D crashed, so that went nowhere.

**SILENT HILL: CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter One: Killing Angels**

The apartment was silent, as expected at that time of night. It was a double shift, or at least felt like it. There was a breakthrough in the case. Mark took of his jacket, letting it tumble from his arms onto the chair. He could deal with it in the morning. His polished dress shoes clicked across the floor as he walked, the cold tile not letting his passing be quiet. He needed to be quiet. Helen was sleeping.

Tugging, Mark loosened his tie, flinching as the cloth pinched his right index finger. He looked down at the digit in question. It was slightly pink. With a smack, he put the thick file he carried down on the kitchen counter. He was too wound up to sleep yet. Flicking on the lamp, left there just for his late, restless nights, Mark walked over to the fridge, looking in.

It was not as well stocked as usual. He glanced at the calendar. Helen had a schedule she went by, tomorrow grocery day. Sighing, he closed the fridge again, taking a glass from the cabinet and filling it with tap water. It didn't taste right. Mark sat anyway, flipping open the file. They all had to study it. Alan Colefield; the name sounded vaguely familiar, though Mark could not place it. It was late, his mind in an after-work haze.

He should just go to sleep.

Slipping out of his shoes, Mark stood, sock encased feet making much less noise across the tile as he went. Helen had dusted, Mark noticing how the photographs on the wall were crystal clear, like they had been taken yesterday. He smiled at their wedding photos. It had been a perfect day. Looking down shyly, Mark trudged on, glass in his hand. He took another sip, flinching. It would have been better to leave the glass in the kitchen, by the sink. The water was terrible. They needed to get a filter.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar.

"Helen? You up?"

No answer came. That was when Mark noticed the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up, his hand trembling as his fingertips brushed against the door, nudging it further open.

With a crash, the glass shattered against the tile floor, shards falling, water leaping up as though reaching for the heavens before falling to spread into nothingness. Mark dashed over the glass, blood following his feet. Wide eyes took in the room, the blood. It was everywhere. Red. Mark swallowed back his nausea, running for the crimson stained bed. His hands dove into the sodden sheets, throwing them back.

He couldn't look.

Shaking, he sank to the ground, mouth open in a soundless cry. Helen was… Helen…

* * *

Colefield knew they were getting close. It was his signature, all over that room. The only thing that did not fit was the usual selection of victim. Colefield always chose someone who grew up in Silent Hill, specifically the Blue Creek Apartments. That had been part of his MO. Mark knew what that meant. If he had been home earlier, it would have been him. Colefield was not after Helen.

Mark stared blankly at the far wall, a gurney passing over his vision. There was a black body bag on it, limp, lifeless. The forensics team was heading in, skimming over the bedroom. His bloodshot blue eyes roamed downward, barely seeing the medic knelt before him, with his foot in hand. Tweezers were pulling out glass shards, bit by bit, putting them in a cup. Mark knew to hold still. It was not that hard to do. He could not even feel it.

"Where is he?"

That voice floated in the apartment, from outside the front door. The crime scene tape lifted, Mark glancing over, not recognizing the form. It wore a brown suit, blue shirt, tie half hanging off. Mark should have recognized him, he knew. It hurt too much to remember anything.

"Mark, you're okay!"

In a worried rush, the man knelt beside the chair, arms wrapping around him. Mark did not move. He returned to staring at the far wall, lips letting out a murmur. "He killed Helen."

"Oh God…" His arms clenched tighter. Mark knew that voice. It was his partner. They had been friends since Mark moved to the big city and joined the police force. They were the station's finest detectives. They hadn't been able to catch Colefield before he struck again. "We'll fry this bastard. I promise. We'll get him."

Mark flinched, medic pulled a large chunk of glass from his foot. A hot rush flooded over the skin. The medic pressed a piece of gauze to it, slowing the blood flow. Mark did not care. He could have bled out then and there and not cared.

"I'm off the case, aren't I?" Mark did not even recognize his own voice. It was hollow. There was no spark behind it. He was watching his life crumble before his eyes. Mark turned his head. He could see into the bedroom. A camera flashed, blinding him for a moment. There was a symbol drawn on the wall, in blood. He looked down. His hands were still covered in it.

One of the forensics guys walked over, scraping off blood from Mark's hands, putting it in different containers for testing. Mark knew what they were doing. He was the prime suspect. The closest person to the victim always was. He had found her. Some of them gave him suspicious looks. Those were the ones who did not know him. Mark could not kill a soul. He had problems killing spiders. He was a vegetarian. They still looked at him differently.

The samples were gathered. The lab rat went away; the medic was finishing with his feet, wrapping them with bandaging. Mark did not wait to get up, the medic taping the gauze shut as he stood. He cringed, limping over to his shoes. He knew procedure. The department would hold him for questioning. He would be interrogated, kept in the station until he could be ruled out as the killer. It would not be long, he knew. Colefield's signature was all over that room, except for the victim. That was the one odd thing out.

Slipping on his shoes, Mark let himself be led out. Colefield would burn for this.

* * *

Pity was never an emotion he had liked. He could see pity in the eyes of the detective, his coworker, sitting across from him. Mark closed his eyes, looking down at the plastic cup of water before him. He should drink it. Mark just stared at it, the ghost of a shadow it cast across the sterile metal table. At least it looked sterile. Mark would not know, nor did he feel like asking. He just would not touch it, not right now.

They had let him wash his hands, after all the samples were collected. Mark still felt like he could see Helen's blood tainting his skin, tinting it red. It was just his head playing tricks on him, he knew, just light and shadow. Mark sighed. "I got home from work late. I took of my jacket, put it on a chair, got a glass of water, took off my shoes and sat down to work. After a short while, I decided to call it a night and headed to the bedroom. When I opened the door…"

His voice was flat. The monotone drone of his words did nothing to fill the void like silence of the interrogation room. Normally Mark was on the other side of that table, asking the questions, scribbling the notes rather than giving a statement and defending himself.

"The coroner said time of death was eight. You were hear with us in the brain storming room until ten. You aren't a suspect, Mark." His voice was supposed to sound consoling, comforting in some way, but Mark took none from it. He looked up, bloodshot eyes finding the sad ones of this colleague. That look hardly helped. Mark looked away. His coworker sighed. "We sent a team up to Colefield's apartment. We'll nab this bitch."

Mark couldn't look up. He couldn't smile at that thought. He couldn't even try. Why Helen? Mark finally picked up the cup, taking a sip. He couldn't taste anything, which was probably good. The water filter had been broken for close to a year, so the water never tasted crisp like it was supposed to. Some inmates joked that the water was so bad just to make men crack.

The man sitting across from him stood, turning and walking out. He left the interrogation room wide open, an invitation to leave. Mark continued sitting on the hard metal chair, at the barely there shadow of the plastic cup under the too bright white light above the table. It was a room meant to make people split at the seams, make them spill everything they had. Mark did not move. There was nothing for him to spill, to confess to, other than his wish that he had been there.

* * *

They had him.

Mark walked past the front desk with a smile, a hollow one. The person gave him a concerned look but said nothing. His blond hair some oil around the roots, making it look darker. Grey circles sat menacingly under his dull blue eyes. Every movement was like it was on auto-pilot, no conscious thought there to guide it. He walked past, through the door. No one tried to stop him.

The lights inside the holding area were red, shadows thick and black. Barred cells sat on either side of him. Only a few had occupants. Most people were transferred out quickly, as the dim red lights and the silence drove them to talking, confessing, pleading to be let out. The police had an unfair advantage here. It was too easy to break someone.

It was the third cell on the left.

He stopped outside the cell, looking through the bars. A man sat hunched on the bench at the back of the cell, legs spread with his arms resting on large thighs. He was an overweight man, old too, with a slightly round face and salt-and-pepper stubble poking out from the tanned skin of his jawline. The man's eyes were brown, dark and soulless. Mark knew soulless when he saw it.

Slowly, almost groggily, the man looked up, those dark, beady eyes locking on Mark, staring into dull blues. Mark felt a chill crawl up his spine, drawing a wicked shudder, goose bumps rising up on his arms, hairs lifting on the back of his neck. That face…. Mark narrowed his eyes, certain his fatigue and shock and grief and the lighting were all playing tricks on his eyes. He could not recognize this man. He was a murderer. A stealer of all that was good and true in the world.

That was the man who had killed Helen.

"You are Alan Colefield?"

A smile stretched onto the man's fat lips, glinting dangerously in his eyes. Mark edged back from the bars an inch, right hand twitching closer to his holster. There was a thick set of steel bars between he and the man. Mark was safe, but hardly felt it. Not when his home had been violated so recently.

Helen was dead.

"Yes. You?"

For a moment Mark considered not giving his name at all, but it was tumbling from his lips before he could even stop it. "Mark Dennings."

There was a hunger sparked on that fat, red splotched face. The shadows almost made those dints and dings in the old skin look like blood splatter. It couldn't be blood. Mark squinted into the dim, crimson light, morbid fascination wondering if it really was, even as the man, that fiend, spoke again, "I remember you. You used to live next door to me. In room 302."

Room 302. The Blue Creek Apartments. Silent Hill. Mark edged back another inch, swallowing the lump in his throat as he noticed his hand was on the cool, smooth leather of his gun's holster. He let out a shaky breath, concentrating on the man, this Alan Colefield. "How do you know that?"

"Remember me?" Colefield stood, Mark tensing, flicking the holster open. "I lived in room 304. Helen lived in 306, just on the other side of me. I was really surprised when I heard the two of you got hitched."

"You killed her." The seething accusation shot out before he could stop it. Mark's fingers coiled around the frigid grip of his police issue hand gun, index sliding into the trigger pocket. Helen did not live in Silent Hill. Mark was sure of it. He would have remembered, especially if she was just a door down. They did not even meet until they were both in the big city. "You were after me."

Colefield shook his head with a laugh. How dare he laugh? "I was after the both of you. Both born and raised in Silent Hill. Both my neighbors."

In a blur, the gun was pointed at him, eyes focusing down along the line of the black, polished barrel of the gun. His hands were shaking. His eyes kept going in and out of focus, one moment with the end of the barrel in perfect clarity, the next with Colefield's smug face in surrealistic sharpness. Mark had to remind himself to keep breathing.

"Why Helen?"

"Why not?"

His finger clenched, touching the trigger but not applying enough pressure to fire it. The taste of bile lingered at the back of his throat.

"Why us?"

Colefield shook his head, taking off the hat which covered his balding head, wiping his sweating brow with a discolored cloth. His grin was crooked. There was a tooth missing in it. Mark swallowed back the bitter tinge of vomit, refusing to lose his stomach here. Now. No. He couldn't. Mark steadied his aim.

"It is all in the master plan. And the best part, Helen did not even scream."

BANG!

Smoke trailed up from the barrel, Mark's eyes widening as he watched black well up from one spot on Colefield's checked dress-shirt, spilling down his rounded belly. Colefield took a step forward.

BANG!

This one left splatter on the wall behind him, glistening black in the dim, crimson light. His chest was becoming slick fast.

BANG!

Colefield fell back onto the bench of the cell, crooked grin still on his big lips. His head lulled slightly to the side, eyes glazed like a doll's.

BANG!

The door opened at the far end of the hall, the person at the desk rushing in, with two armed officers on each side. They relaxed when they saw it was just Mark. Shaking head to foot, Mark lowered the gun, leaning against the bars behind him, sliding down them until his knees were to his chest, barrel of the gun sagging lazily to the concrete floor.

Alan Colefield was dead. No more blood pumped from the bullet holes. It continued to glisten, shine. Mark had the urge to paint it on the walls, but remained where he was, slumped into the bars of the cell behind him.

He had to leave.

Mark forced himself to stand shakily, pushing his gun into its holster, barely able to get it in there. He staggered out past them.

* * *

"_Earlier today our private investigator got a hold of a tape which shows that the reported suicide in the holding cells of the police department was actually a homicide. Warning: the footage ahead is graphic and may be viewed as disturbing._"

Mark watched the television screen like a moth attracted to the flame, even as it showed the crimson lights of the detention hall in grainy black and white. It was soundless, like an old silent picture show, a horror flick for sure as the gun flashed and went off four times. Mark only remembered pulling the trigger once, and that was barely.

Groaning, Mark rested his head in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut as the reporter on the ten o-clock news continued her story.

"_This video tape proves a station-wide cover up centering around the police detective Marcus Dennings, who shot the man in custody. Marcus Dennings, 27, has had a stellar record up to this point_—"

With the press of a button, all of the color on the screen sucked into the center and became black, the mechanical buzz of the television vanishing, leaving him in an eerily quiet motel room. The phone was ringing. Mark groped blindly across the round, fake-wood table, finally finding the beige plastic form of the phone with his hand. He lifted the receiver and set it back down.

Moments later, the receiver sprung back to life.

Mark turned his head, staring at the phone. It rang again, shrill, grating. It rang again, incessant, annoying.

Lunging, Mark picked up it before it could ring again. He pressed the receiver slowly to his ear, voice a nervous whisper. "Hello?"

"_Mark_?"

"Yes?"

There was a pause, a silence, in which it felt like a cord could be snapped with the slightest pluck. Mark pushed back his apprehension, pressing the receiver closer to his ear. "Yes?" He repeated it. It did not need to be, but he did anyway. "Yes?"

"_You need to turn yourself in_."

Those words clung to the air, resonating on it. Mark heard a car pulling up. He set the receiver gently down on the table, so it would make no noise. Slowly, he crept towards the window, approaching it from the side and leaning just barely around the frame. There were three squad cars out front. Mark strode back over to the phone, picking it up and whispering into it frantically. "I need answers."

"_And we won't get any! You blew that when you fucking killed Colefield! We finally had him!_"

Mark set the receiver down gingerly again, slipping on his shoes, tying them quickly though carefully. They were his work shoes, polished and still somewhat stiff, but better than nothing. He slipped his keys into his pocket, his gun in its holster and clipped his badge to his belt. Creeping, Mark went to the window on the back side of the motel room, sliding it open, crawling through it and onto the ledge. From out there, he pushed the window shut again, nodding when the old, barely maintained locks fell shut. A malfunction normally, but perfect for now.

Taking a deep breath, Mark edged his way on the ledge, careful to hug to the wall, to not fall. He was only on the second floor. That fall wouldn't kill him. Mark looked back, continuing to move all the while. That fall would, however, break bones. That would make it impossible for him get the answers he needed.

Mark kept edging, sweat beading across his olive skin, trickling down. He was shaking, but forced himself to keep going. He was almost to the tree in the inner courtyard. Almost there.

A loud bang echoed into the quiet morning. They had just broken down the door into the motel room Mark had been in. His quickened his pace, tensing, leaping. He barely grabbed the tree branch. Breathing a sigh of relief, he worked his way down, and was soon on the floor.

His cellphone started ringing in his pocket.

"Shit!" Mark hissed, quickly fishing it out as he ran across the enclosed courtyard. He turned it on silent, shoving it back in his pocket as he flew out into the street. He was parked around front, about fifty feet away from the three squad cars. Mark ducked behind a row of shrubs, scrambling along his chosen path, keeping bent in half in hopes of not being seen. He ducked beside his car, opening the door as quietly as he could, sitting inside it.

The moment he turned that ignition, he knew they would be coming his way. He had to do this quickly and efficiently. Taking a deep breath, he looked behind him. There was a slight slope. Mark shifted it into neutral, letting the car roll backwards. They had yet to notice him. The car rolled into the road, Mark turning the key, slamming it into drive and going. His tires squealed, car standing still for a moment before gunning forward.

He had to go fast. They no doubt realized by now that he was in his car. Hopefully they had not figured out where he was going yet.

* * *

The mirror had a horror story to tell.

Mark closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. The blond locks clung together, roots oily. He had not showered in a while. Looking into the tarnished glass of the mirror again, Mark sighed. There were dark grey smudges beneath his blue eyes, and his olive tan had a sickly pale beneath it. He was trembling just standing there. He needed food. There were some fitness bars in his car, in case of emergency, but he had yet to taken the time to eat one.

He was almost there.

Leaning heavily against the sink, Mark flipped on the water. The pipes rattled, but no water came out. From the bronze and green streaks on the wall, over the once white tiles, Mark figured the pipes had busted a while ago. The rest stop looked to be as badly neglected as Mark was, with graffiti on the walls in blacks and reds and purples. Mark glanced over a few of the scrawled messages, faded and warped by too much moisture, but still barely readable. They looked religious.

Shaking his head, Mark moved away from the sink. The water came on. Mark glanced back, eyes narrowing on the stream, rust hued, which flowed from the faucet.

Mark knew, this trip was going to be far from normal.


	2. Prayer

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Silent Hill or Alessa or Valtiel or Lisa. Konami does. However, I do own the writing here, and this crazy idea.

**Warning:** dark, morbid themes, violence, language, disturbing scenes, etc. Everything the game was known for.

**Author's Note:** Every chapter title is a reference to the games, as either a song title, a monster name, or something like that. So far, they are song titles. I would love you forever if you could say which game each is from/what the reference is WITHOUT GOOGLING it. Kthnx.

**SILENT HILL: CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter II: Prayer**

He tilted his head up slowly, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. The aroma clung to the air still, causing his eyes to flutter shut as his brain buzzed with sensory activity. Goose bumps raised across his lightly colored arms, only partially visible because his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. As much as he did not want to open his eyes, he had to. There was no point in waiting.

Someone had taken her out recently. Aleister could still smell her on the stagnant hall air.

Normally that was his duty.

Aleister walked slowly down the hall, hands thrust into his blue slacks, dress shoes clicking on the tile floor of the halls. The fluorescent lights above him hummed, flickering for a moment. He paused. There was a shift in the air, its going from too cold to too hot in an instant. Things had not been right in Silent Hill since the fire. Nothing had been.

Watching his feet as he walked, he turned in through the last doorway of the hall, almost afraid to look up.

"I scare you, don't I?"

That soft, feminine voice was strained, hurt. Aleister flinched. He shook his head, black hair falling in front of his face. He smoothed it back with a slender hand, clearing the vision of his evergreen eyes. Finally, he forced himself to look up. Across the sick room was the bed. He had gotten used to it, or should have by now. It was just a small twin-sized bed with white linens, and the bandaged form of Alessa lying upon it. He could still see some of the burn marks through the crisscross of gauze.

"No." Aleister shook his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He forced his eyes to move up from the white sheets at the edge of the bed, finding Alessa's face again. Her hair was starting to grow back, silky and black. The pain seemed to have lessened. That was good. Aleister hated seeing her in pain.

Sirens cut into the still hospital air, Aleister tensing at their sound. He was not used to them, not yet at least. It would come with time. Heels clicked across the tile floor, the nurse, Lisa, hurrying across the floor. Aleister watched her red shoes, polished and still pretty. He wondered how she managed, considering she was always on her feet. It didn't matter.

"Aleister…."

His evergreen eyes trailed up, catching the pinched look on Alessa's disfigured face, the way her dark eyes were narrowed on something in particular. Aleister's own gaze focused on it. There was a little spider hanging from a near invisible thread, making its way down towards Alessa's sickbed. Aleister reached forward quickly, squashing it in between his index finger and thumb, offering a smile to her.

Immediately Alessa relaxed, and the light above the bed stopped flickering between light and dark.

Lisa quickly moved to the other side of the hospital room, red heels clicking just as loudly as always. She was checking Alessa's vital signs on the machines which should have stopped working long ago, but remained operational. All of the equipment in Silent Hill was old. It was such a small town. It was a wonder that there were even two hospitals. This one, Alchimella Hospital, was the closest to home for them, the closest to the church where they had both been raised.

Alessa wrapped her frail fingers around Aleister's hand, giving a feeble squeeze. Aleister had to bite his lip. Seeing Alessa so weak, so mangled… He shut his eyes, taking in a shaking, slow breath. It calmed his mind. When he looked back up again, at her once porcelain face, he found that Alessa was already slumbering.

* * *

It was happening again.

The shriek of sirens tore through the quiet streets of Silent Hill, ripping them from the quiet sleepiness of fog into full darkness. Clear, abysmal darkness. Aleister quickened his pace, breaking into a jog as he ran down the black street, keeping close to the middle. There were creatures in the buildings which he did not want to deal with.

There were more important matters to handle right now.

Mist was still strewn about the streets, creating thick patches here and there which caught the flickering light of street lamps, rusted and splattered with what must have been blood, and other human fluids, pieces. Aleister clapped a hand over his mouth as he sprinted past what must have been a person, now so badly mauled and melted into the asphalt that it was barely discernable had it not been for the stench, the flies.

Wings flapped close by, too close for comfort in all reality. He knew they would not attack him. That was what he had been told. However, Aleister did not feel save, even as the worm-riddled creature dove down and landed on the emulsified corpse and began to eat. Aleister kept running. One of the dog like beasts growled at him but did not launched. It looked like a skinned greyhound, quivering with all of its muscles taut and laid bare.

What was his beloved hometown becoming?

Aleister raced through the synthetic night, barreling in through the doors of the elementary school. Midwich Elementary. Aleister had gone there for a brief period, before the school took up tutoring him privately. He was too far above what the public system would provide. His mind was meant for other things.

Uncovering his mouth, Aleister clicked on his flashlight. The white beam cut through the darkness, the silence, making the shadows around him seem all the deeper with that one column of vision. Aleister moved slowly, cautiously, hearing the continuous blare of sirens outside.

This was where she had gone. Aleister knew it. He could feel it.

The broken floor tiles crunched beneath his steps. It looked like there was mold or rust or both covering every surface, streaking the walls, making the floor crumble, become hazardous. Aleister put one hand against the wall to steady himself, cringing at the almost spongy feel, like it was alive and wet.

There she was.

"Wait!" Aleister stumbled at first before finding his footing, scrambling after her as she went down into the adjacent hall. He had not been in that school for years. He dashed after the flash of her blue uniform, shoulder slamming hard into the door. Quickly he jingled the handle, its coming open for him. Aleister kept running. She was going into one of the class rooms.

He barreled inside.

All of the desks but one where pushed out into a wide, haphazard circle. Aleister pointed his flashlight around the room, pale beam catching the lone desk in the very center. A little girl sat at that desk, humming, coloring. Black hair fell to chin length around her round, porcelain face. Those eyes were so dark they were almost black as well. She kept humming and drawing, even as Aleister climbed over the desks to get to the clear center.

"Alessa?"

The little girl looked just like Alessa, only younger, much younger, and not scarred from the fire. She kept humming and drawing.

Aleister could hear footsteps, and a door burst open at the front of the school. A voice, masculine, middle-aged, Aleister guessed, filled the silent void. "Cheryl!! Cheryl!"

The girl looked up from her humming, putting the blue crayon down. She smiled. Cheryl. She looked just like Alessa. It was unnerving.

* * *

Aleister knelt, rolling the body over. It was a limp, dead weight. Just as he expected, his target was tucked into the waistband, under the security of a too tight belt. He was timid about touching the man, sweat soaking most of his dress shirt, mud and blood and other, more grotesque things caking his legs and feet. The man had obviously been trudging through some nightmare Aleister could only imagine. Then again, Silent Hill itself had become a nightmare.

With a quick burst of speed, Aleister pulled the sleek black gun out from the waistband, backing away in his crouched position before standing. He checked the clip, pleased to see it was full. The man had no other rounds, but it was a police standard issue weapon, meaning it would be standardized rounds. Aleister had read a little on guns, though not much. He had never fired one. It was more a safety precaution. And perhaps an intimidation tool, too.

The man would not be needing that insurance anymore, anyway.

Tucking the handgun into his own waistband, Aleister turned and headed down the narrow hallway. The walls were not exactly parallel or exactly straight, Aleister able to see the slight shift in angle and ignore it. So many people got lost in Silent Hill. So many people lost it in Silent Hill. Aleister was not going to be of their number.

Alessa protected him.

* * *

"Where is she!!" Aleister flew through the door, hand darting out, grabbing tightly around a red sweater clad wrist. He yanked, pulling Lisa back, face-to-face with him. "Where is Alessa?!"

The hospital room was abandoned. The bed was empty. Her wheelchair was gone. It was just an empty, dingy, bloody bed. There were bandages, stained a dark brown from dried blood, hanging off the bedpost, the machinery. Alessa did not have the strength to have gone on her own.

With a jerk, Aleister slammed the small framed nurse against the wall, leaning over her. He was tall, six foot two, and intimidating with his toned muscles. He was not bulky, shoulders not all that broad, but he was strong. Aleister tightened his clamp on her wrist, hearing the little cry. There were tears in Lisa's eyes, but she still wasn't answering.

"Where is Alessa?!"

She looked away, blond hair cascading across her face. Aleister reached back with his free hand, pulling the gun from his waistband. He had not had to use it yet. He put the gun to her head, nestling the sleek black barrel into her blond hair. Lisa was trembling, crying, lips quavering. Aleister did not feel bad for it.

"Dahlia took her."

With a shove, Aleister let go, keeping the gun out and in his dominant, left hand. He moved back, turning. Having his back to Lisa Garland was not a stupid decision. She could not harm him. It seemed like nothing could, in this retched town. Dahlia… Aleister knew what Dahlia was doing. But was it time? Yes, their God needed to be born again, so the Creation could finish, and Paradise finally reign on Earth, as it was meant to be. But was it time?

Alessa was the vessel for God. Only she would know.

His steps were quick and firm across the decayed, decrepit floor tiles of the hospital's basement. He made his way swiftly down the long corridor, ignoring the creatures which stalked his path, the rooms on either side of him. They were of no consequence. Alessa… Aleister had promised he would be there for her, during this, no matter what. Even if it was just in spirit, he would be with her.

Aleister came around the corner, pressing the button for the elevator. Despite the fact that none of the lights were on in the basement, submerging it into pitch black, and the fact that there was no power anywhere in Alchemilla Hospital but Alessa's room, the numbers came to life on the elevator, and soon the doors opened, admitting him. Aleister stepped in, pressing the button for the first floor with his right hand.

For the first time since he got the gun, he checked it over. The safety was off, which was for the best. The clip was still full, and he had a box of loose bullets in his pocket, which he had found in the post office of all places. Then again, the entire town was disheveled, like it had been turned on end and shaken before flipped back the right way. Nothing was right, exactly as it had been.

Ever since that fire, Silent Hill had been hell.

Claudia was convinced it was Paradise trying to immerge upon their world, to usher the birth of God. Aleister pressed the button for 1 again. It was taking too long. He had no idea how long ago Dahlia had come for Alessa, how fast they were moving. He only knew where.

The elevator doors finally opened. A nurse, what had been one, blocked the door. With a smooth motion, Aleister lifted the gun and fired, bullet flying through the chest, burying into the far wall. The nurse stumbled back, twitching, mutilated head shaking. The white dress was darkened with grime and sweat, and now slicked with blood. One of her white heels was broken, making each step staggered, lopsided. There was a jagged piece of broken metal in her gnarled hands.

Aleister kicked hard, foot compressing into her stomach, sending the retched creature back into the red misted wall. He walked past, not even turning to finish her. There was no time. The long corridor was otherwise empty, Aleister pulling back the slide on his gun, listening to the click. It was ready. He pushed through the next set of doors.

There was nothing in this corridor, and it almost looked normal. The tiles were not as broken and soiled. The walls were even the grey expected in a bland hospital. Aleister pushed through another set of doors.

"What is wrong, Valtiel?"

He jumped, tensing. It took all of his restraint not to lift the gun. He swiveled, casting a sideways glance at the speaker, Claudia, through his unruly black hair. Those raven locks had not been cut in a while, so they were getting long, touching his cheek bones now. Alessa had commented about liking his hair, and even touched it, so he had no intentions of cutting it soon.

Valtiel. That was what Alessa called him. He was her angel. Aleister closed his eyes, running his right hand back through his hair, pushing it from his face. He was a lot paler recently, having not gotten much sun lately. There was not much sun in Silent Hill lately.

"Did you see Dahlia?" Aleister let his harsh gaze rake over Claudia. She was shorter than him, to no surprise, with bright blond hair hanging straight to her shoulders, a pale, slightly freckled face and blue eyes staring at him. She was wearing a long dress, conservative, all black. It suited her. She was destined to lead in the church one day.

She shook her head, wringing her hands before her. "Vincent told me to stay out of it."

That was… as expected. Vincent was another person he could see in a leadership position, even if he had to wear such thick glasses to even see, and was usually chaotic and disorganized. They both had high aspirations. And they both knew where power rested. Aleister's influence was key. He was the closest to Alessa, which immediately ranked him close to the top, even if he did not want it. He only served Alessa. Not the church. Not the people. Alessa.

"You should be in the chapel, where it is safe."

"My faith protects me, Valtiel." Claudia smiled, holding her hands up at her sides. She had no weapon that Aleister could see. Then again, she would never pose a threat to him, unless he actually expressed interest in taking the church leadership for himself, which he would never do. In that regards, Aleister was safe. "Go to her."

She was right. Aleister needed to go. Alessa would be waiting for him.

* * *

He did not make it in time.

Alessa was gone.

Gone….

Aleister was shaking. He stumbled, falling to his knees on the charred earth, tip of his gun dragging through the dirt. She was gone. Next to him was the steaming pile of what used to be Dahlia. He felt no love lost for the woman. It was her fault. She forced this on Alessa too soon. Aleister's intuition had been right. It was too soon. And now…

Now…

Aleister choked back a dry sob, clinging to the gun, the only thing he had to hold on to.

Alessa was gone.

* * *

The cards were not telling him everything. Aleister ran his fingertips over them, half veiled evergreen eyes scrutinizing them. The first was The Hanged Man. There was a face on it, which he did not know. The hair was blond, or so it seemed because of the shade in sepia tone on the worn tarot card. Just beneath the name of the card, there was a name for the face: Mark Dennings. That name was vaguely familiar, though he was not sure from where.

There were names on most of the cards. Alan Colefield was one. Aleister barely remembered the man, knowing only that his caretakers warned he and Alessa to steer clear of him, never be alone with him. He lived in the Blue Creek Apartments. That was where Aleister had his abode, though he never used it. He was always at the chapel or Alessa's hollow sickroom, now abandoned. Even now he was in the bowels of the chapel, in a room that had once been Alessa's.

The Magus sat at the center of it all. Aleister recognized his own face, framed in long black hair with piercing, cold eyes, staring out at him. He was not bothered by this. He could read his own name beneath the card's as well.

The Priestess was next to him. Alessa Gillespie…

It was time to get Alessa back.


	3. Ordinary Vanity

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill or Valtiel or Alessa. Konami does. I own the writing and the main arc. Dun sue me.

**Warning:** dark and morbid themes, language, violence, blood and gore, sexual insinuations and disturbing scenes. Everything one might be warned for on the back of a Silent Hill box, and then some.

**Author's Note:** I am still introducing characters. Don't worry. Soon everything will start overlapping.

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter III: Ordinary Vanity**

"_Mommy, where are we going?" She stumbled, lips trembling, eyes filling. Her wrist hurt, mother's nails digging in, hand yanking. "Mommy, where is daddy?" The woman yanked again, quickening her already long strides. Sydney let the tears tumble from her eyes._

_The streets were full of cool fog. It was beautiful, comfortable. Sydney did not want to go. For the last week it had been this quiet fog. She was supposed to be at school. She was supposed to be with her friends, singing in class. It was time for music._

_Sometimes Alessa would come see them in her wheelchair. Aleister would cart her around and they would both be smiling._

_Sydney cried out as he foot slipped, tumbling to the ground. There was a scrape on her knee, just above her black knee sock. Something stained the side of her blue skirt, the long blue sleeves of her shirt. Her school uniform was soiled. She couldn't go back until it was clean._

_There was blood on the ground._

With a cry, Sydney bolted upright. She shivered, pushing her palm up over her forehead, closing her eyes as the beads of sweat were smoothed to slick her skin. It was cold. Letting out a long, shaking sigh, Sydney looked towards the window, noting how it was open. A night breeze was trickling in, sheer white curtains pushed towards her. It reminded her of the fog.

Shaking her head, Sydney slid out from beneath the sheets, taking the three steps needed to get to the window. She pushed it shut, flicking the latch closed. Sydney could have sworn she left it shut when she went to sleep. She never went to bed with the window open.

She must have forgotten.

Sydney crossed back over to her bed, sitting on the rim. With a practiced ease she pulled the tie from her hair, letting the long brown locks fall around her for a moment before binding it all back up. The bright display on the clock read 2:34. She needed to get back to sleep.

The dreams were growing more frequent. Her shrink said to write them all down, so she remembered them, so she could find out why they plagued her nights. Sometimes, she had them during the day, too. Sydney picked up the little leather bound journal beside her bed, penning the details she could remember. Each dream had been short, too the point.

There were times when she was afraid she might not wake up.

Sydney put the book down, pen on top. She slid back under the thick sheets, rolling so her back was to the window. Pulling the covers up so they touched her chin, she tried falling back to sleep.

* * *

The light flickered, buzzing, sliding in and out of darkness. She leaned her head back against the old, worn padding, watching out the thin, rectangular window with half-veiled eyes. Her white walls, now closer to grey, were safe compared to what was outside that thick steel door, that small, barred window. Anna could see the brown and orange and red streaked walls, bloated from moisture and age and lack of maintenance. How long had she been there?

Food sat on a paper plate five feet away from here, half rotted. What had been hamburger helper squirmed with the white forms of maggots. The apple, what she thought might have been an apple, was half caved in, dark blue fuzz sitting like cloud cover over that whole. There was white powder all around it. It was the byproduct of the mold. Anna found it humoring that medicine was made from the shit of mold.

Rolling her shoulders, Anna craned her head up. She could hear the lopsided waltz of the nurses outside the steel door. One step was flat, hard. The next had a light click to it. Most of them were only missing one heel. There were a few with both intact, and quite a few more with no shoes at all any more. Their white dresses looked like they had been soaked in tea of coffee, and then splattered with theater blood. Anna knew it was real, though.

Pushing, Anna worked her way up the wall, unable to stick her arms out for balance. The rough fabric of her bindings made that impossible. Soon she was standing, knees together, bare feet fanned out at odd angles for balance, just as she leaned against the padded wall for it. From that height she could see out of the window, see what was crossing through the hall.

The light flickered and buzzed again. The nurses seemed to be attracted to the light, though they had not been able to figure out how to get in yet. Anna was certain the key had been lost a long time ago. Her original caretakers were either dead, or one of _them_ now.

One of the nurses paused at her door, turning to face it. The woman's body convulsed, twitching. That face looked badly melted and twisted together. There were no discernable features other than one, bloodshot eye down where the cheek probably should have been. It was like the great Picasso had a nightmare, and she had to live through it.

Cedar Grove did not always used to be this way. Anna remembered when her parents first left her there. The nurses smiled, though they were timid of her. They tried putting on a face. None of their heels were broken. Some of the worse patients, they did not get smiles from the nurses. Anna was one of the lucky ones. She knew it. Never once had she been put into the machines that shocked people. Too many had been electrocuted in those machines, and no one cared, because they were just crazy.

Anna wiggled, straight jacket just as tight as it was when they put it on her. It almost looked as though the nurse was leering at her. She slid down on the padded wall, sitting again. The click-stomp-click-stomp of the nurse leaving could be heard. Even though they looked like monsters, some of the original habits remained. Every so often, one of the nurses would come to check on her. It was nice.

There was no getting out today. She would just have to sit and wait.

It would come. All she had to do was be patient.

* * *

_The fog made her think of white cotton candy pulled thin. She smiled, spinning in a circle and skipping around. The other children, the ones who were left, sat timidly at the edge of the center courtyard. They were afraid to play. The clock tower scared them and the fog scared them and the sirens too. Yesterday had been the first time she heard the sirens. The teacher, a nice nun by the name of Lillian Trevelli, told them to hide under the desks and hold their heads between their knees and pray._

_After a few minutes, the sirens stopped and they resumed class._

_Sydney giggled and smiled, twirling around some more._

_The squeak of a wheelchair wheel made her stop. She spun, mirth lighting her eyes. With a jump, she sprinted across the courtyard, a big grin spreading across her face. Her brown pigtails swayed with her every leap, and soon she was standing before the wheelchair, bouncing up and down with excitement._

_No smile spread on Alessa's own lips this time. Her face was unbandaged for the first time Sydney could remember, showing the warped, burnt flesh with patches of perfectly pale in between. Her hands were folded on her lap, one still heavily wrapped in gauze, the other free of it, and just as marred as that face. Her almost black eyes were sad. Alessa looked down, at her knees, sighing. She was in a dark blue robe, which looked comfortable, but she could not have been, considering._

_Aleister, her silent guardian, stood with both of his hands on the wheelchair, as though he was afraid she might vanish were he to let go. Sydney understood that they were close. She looked up at him. His eyes were dark green, rimmed in black lashes, also sad. His black hair was somewhat short, though not as trimmed as the last time Sydney saw him. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks, with polished shoes. It almost looked like a school uniform, but not for Midwich Elementary. Aleister was too old to go there._

"_Why are you so sad?" Sydney took a step closer. Had Alessa not looked so wary and depressed, Sydney might have shown her the new shoes she was wearing, with little bows on top. There were more important things now. Sydney was mature enough to realize that._

_Alessa shook her head. "I just needed some fresh air." Her voice was soft, full of caring and pain. Sydney barely caught Aleister flinching._

_One time, Sydney had made the mistake of asking them if they were going to get married. The question had made Alessa cry and Aleister blush, and the woman who followed them, some old, scary hag, had yelled at her and said no one touches the Holy Vessel, and no one defiles the Holy Vessel. That had ended that conversation._

_And so they always seemed… distracted and worried and tense. Sydney did not understand._

_The sirens started going off again_.

Sydney jolted upright, heart pounding. The sirens continued. Red and blue flashes went by outside the window as an ambulance and fire truck went screaming by.

These dreams… Sydney picked up the book beside her bed, writing down every detail before it could escape. Setting the pen and book back down, she glanced back towards the window. It was open again, sheer white sheet reaching for her. Sydney got up and closed the window again, doing the latch. With that, she slid back in bed.

They weren't just dreams.

* * *

The school bell rang, shrill and loud over the intercom system. Sydney put the chalk down mid sentence, turning around to face the class, forcing a smile. Half of the students were already up and heading off. She shook her head, smoothing a hand over her perfectly done ponytail, straightening her little maroon blazer. The remaining students were finishing packing up their books, ready to run off for the day. It was the last class of the afternoon, after all.

There was still one student left, sitting on her desk with her cheek in the palm of her hand, staring blankly at the floor. Her brown eyes were soft. She had bleached blond hair; Sydney could see the dark roots. She looked vaguely familiar, and not just because she was in class every day. No. Sydney had thought she recognized the girl on the first day.

"Heather, is something wrong?" Sydney stopped by her desk, the teen looking up, blinking a few times.

Heather smiled, and Sydney smiled back. She felt like she knew that smile from somewhere. "Nah. My dad is going to pick me up today."

Sydney nodded, saying a goodbye before going back up to the board, erasing it. Finished, she picked up the phone on the desk, dialing the number she had meant to for a while. In the meanwhile, Heather finally got up and left.

The phone rang three times before it answered.

"Hey, mom." Sydney looked around the room. Everything was ready and in order for the next day and the next class. "I have a question I need to ask…" Sydney waited, taking a deep breath. "When I was a kid, did we live somewhere else? Like, somewhere full of fog?"

"_How do you know about that_?"

"I've been having dreams, mom. I don't think they are just dreams."

Silence followed. Sydney counted her heartbeats, her breaths. After a while, her mother finally spoke again, voice raspy from years of smoking. "_We used to live in a little town called Silent Hill. It was right by Toluca Lake_."

"Why did we leave?"

"_Things started getting weird_." She did not sound happy talking about it. "_Is that all_?"

"Yes, mother."

The line went dead. Syndey hung up the receiver, gathering her folders into her bag, putting it on her shoulder.

Silent Hill.

She had saved up all of her vacation time for the last three years for a reason. It was about time she used it. Syndey was going home.


	4. Hole in the Sky

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill. Konami does. All Silent Hill characters within are also owned by Konami. However, I own the characters Mark, Helen, Anna, Sydney and Aleister (pre-Valtiel only). I also own this story arc, except for (of course) the recap of SH1.

**Warning:** Blood and gore, dark themes, violence, disturbing themes, language, mature and morbid themes, etc. Everything that can be found in Silent Hill and more.

**Author's Note:** Silent Hill 5: Homecoming comes out in less than a month. I can't wait. I've already got my copy preordered. The titles are still all from songs. First person to guess which game each song (or at least one of the songs) comes from will get a cookie and glomped. And I will love you forever.

* * *

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter IV: Hole in the Sky**

The street was blocked off. Mark pressed the button on the butt of his flashlight, watching as the white beam of LEDs cut through the shade. The chicken-wire fence was old, rusted in places. There was an old padlock on the door in the fence, also rusted, corroded. Mark flipped open the leather holster beneath his left arm, pulling out his gun. He aimed.

No. He only had a limited number of rounds. Mark did not know if he was being followed, if there would be problems ahead, if other complications would come. He just knew that he should conserve.

Tightening his grip, with his finger outside the trigger guard, Mark hit the lock with the butt of the pistol. It chipped but did not break. Mark readjusted his fingers, lifting them from the grip, stretching them before retightening his grasp. He hit it again. Another chip.

That was good enough.

Mark kicked, lock flying off, grate door flung back and open as he tucked his gun back into its holster. That done, he walked through, raising his flashlight again, flicking it back on. The beam sliced right, catching one side of the tunnel, seeing the saw horses and warning signs. The beam sliced left, catching open grating and yellow tape. Mark stepped through the door, hopping over some yellow tape as he went.

There was steam coming out of the vent. Mark ducked under some tape, kneeling beside the rectangular hole, shining his light down it. It looked like a downward heading tunnel, completely rusted and caked in different shades of brown and red. He could not see where the hole went to, where it ended. It was cordoned off for a reason.

Standing, Mark lifted the tape, heading under it again. The whole tunnel was riddled in those seemingly endless holes. There was no way, even if he cleared all of the saw horses and tape out of the way, that he could drive his car through the tunnel. He would have to go on foot. Sighing, Mark headed back out, straight to his car parked outside the rest stop. There was a map in there, purchased at a gas station on the way, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, his cell phone, on once more. He clipped the cell phone to his belt and put the rest in his pockets.

All the while, he kept his flashlight, off, held in his teeth. The circles under his eyes had not lessened, despite the fact that he had managed a few short hours of sleep in his car since arriving. There was a little more oil darkening his blond hair, the locks waving just slightly. He needed a shower. The closest hotel he knew of was on the north side of the lake, and was a huge tourist attraction, meaning he would probably not be able to get a room on such short notice.

The tunnel entering town was neglected, though. There was no signal on his cell phone either.

How long had the town been secluded like this?

Mark was not sure he wanted to know. He headed back through the chicken-wire fence, over the first taped section and around the holes. It was a long tunnel, but would punch him straight through the mountain and into the town of Silent Hill. It would be much easier than taking the path which wound its way down by Toluca lake, a path with steep drop-offs and sharp turns, usually choked with fog from the humidity of the lake. It would be a far too dangerous path to take.

At least the tunnel was straight, even if he had to keep his flashlight roaming and his eyes down. There were too many holes in the ground to even glance up for a second. Every step echoed in the tunnel, coming back at him ten fold. No one else was in there.

His flashlight beam was not as clear anymore. Mark turned, flashing his light back the way he came. He could not see the end of the tunnel, the sun on the other side. It was pitch black, the only illumination faint and coming from the vents. Mark swiveled again, pointing the beam ahead. The ray was broken, scattered by the steam coming from the holes.

It was hotter, too.

Not lowering his flashlight, Mark undid the second to top button on his dress shirt, pushing his collar further open. It was getting much hotter. That illumination from the vents was reddish almost. It was like he was walking down a tunnel to hell.

He very well could have been.

A loud screech stopped his advance.

It sounded like a heavy metal object scraping against metal. Mark took another step forward, pointing his flashlight ahead of him. He could see nothing further than twenty feet in the steam. Edging forward, foot sliding across the asphalt ground, Mark kept moving. He did not want to lower his flashlight.

The sound came again, echoing loudly. It was being dragged, whatever it was. Mark took an actual step forward, feet crisscrossing. The foot landed on metal grating, Mark immediately looking down. There was a hole a centimeter in front of that foot. Shaking his head, letting out a nervous sigh, Mark crisscrossed his steps to the side, going around the hole before continuing forward. He kept his gaze up for now, still shuffling.

A bead of sweat trickled down from his temple, rolling over his cheek, to his jaw before dripping off. It was too damn hot in the tunnel.

Sirens started, roaring to life in the silence, shattering it.

The world around him began to shatter too.

Mark watched in horror as the yellow paint peeled off the saw horses, rising up to reveal mangled metal forms, rusted and bent. The asphalt beneath his feet was changing too, parts of it falling down into the abysmal darkness, opening more holes, larger holes. The black-top became metal, so rusted and thick it had a stench about it. It was the smell of decay; any homicide detective would recognize it.

The worst part of it was the walls. There was blood written on the decrepit brick walls of the tunnel, symbols. They were the same as the ones in Helen's room.

He could not move. His feet were anchored to the ground though nothing but his own apprehension held them. A longer dragging scrape rose through the sound of shrill sirens. It was behind him. Mark turned his head, blond locks falling before his eyes. There was less steam now, but it was hotter. He could feel himself sweating. He must have been covered in it. Slowly, Mark turned.

He wasn't prepared for it.

With a staggered, fluid and writhing and awkward, step it lurched forward right arm and shoulder further back than the forward extended left. In the right hand, causing the muscles under sickly pale and blood spattered skin, was a massive knife. It was not really a sword. But it was too large to truly be a knife. The creature took another jerky step towards Mark, dragging the massive metal thing along behind it.

It didn't really have a head. There was this box, this oblong pyramid of what looked like a dark red glass, covering where its head should have been.

Mark took a shuffled step backwards. The creature's strides were long, reaching, and its right shoulder would jerk forward to yank the knife with it. It could just step right over more of the holes. Mark slid his feet further back, keeping his flashlight trained on the red pyramid on its head. Looking further down that heavily muscled body made his stomach churn, as the creature wore an apron that looked to be sown of skins.

It started to move faster.

There was no way, at this stagnant pace, that he would get away, and Mark had a feeling that knife was for more than just show.

Slowly, cautiously, Mark turned away, taking in a deep breath. He let his flashlight beam fall, to the steel grates of the floor, the vents with steam wafting from them. The red glow coming from beneath them was more intense now, but still not enough to see by.

The knife stopped dragging. Mark glanced back over his shoulder, breath catching in his lungs. With just its right arm it hoisted the knife, lifting it into the air. The knife was long enough that with a proper thrust—

He had to go. _NOW_.

Mark lunged into a sprint, legs powering him forward, flashlight beam bobbing across his path. The loud crash of the knife hitting the ground rattled through the tunnel, a low, rumbling growl issuing from the creature. Mark cast a quick look back. It was walking again, faster than before, left arm waving through the air like some sort of conductor as it dragged the knife on behind it.

His foot hit air.

With a jolt, he fell forward, arms shooting out, hands grabbing hard on the grating. His feet swung, slamming hard into the walls of the downward tunnel. The wind flew from his lungs. The metal was hot. His hands were sweating. Slipping. The flashlight sat on the grating just out of his reach, the clank-scrape-clank-scrape of the red pyramid's knife drawing closer.

Grunting, Mark hoisted, feet kicking at the corroded metal, trying to get a grip, anything. Heaving again, face turning red, Mark pulled his body up over the lip, rolling across the grating with panting breaths. He grabbed the flashlight in the roll, pushing up on his feet.

The creature was almost to him, massive blade lifting into the air again, whizzing forward. Mark ducked, tip whizzing past his ear, almost touching it. Mark shuffled back, lifting his flashlight with a shaking hand again. The blade rose up, darting at him. Mark side-stepped it, hitting the ground when the thrust became a horizontal slice. Whatever it was, it wanted to kill him.

Its blade collided with the metal ground hard, lodged in a beam.

Sirens sounded off again. Mark looked around quickly before locking his gaze back on the red pyramid. It was writhing, arms lifting, working into a strange dance. It twitched, convulsing before grabbing the handle of its knife, yanking on it hard to dislodge it. It walked slowly for one of the holes. There were stairs on it. As the sirens went off, it descended into the darkness.

In only a matter of moments, the ground was of asphalt again. The sawhorses were painted yellow. The same hued tape was strung up all around the small, grated holes. The walls of the tunnel were cement, without any markings upon them. He could see light at the end of the tunnel, where it emptied out into Silent Hill.

When he looked back towards the entrance of the tunnel, all he saw was rubble. There was no way out in that direction. He could only continue forward.

* * *

"You expect to find all of these people?"

Aleister nodded, gaze roaming over the spread. The cards could not be lying. They had even mutated to make the path needed clearer. Aleister let his pale fingers run over Alessa's card. Some of her black hair looked faded, as though it was bleached, even. Perhaps that was what she looked like in this life. Aleister would not know, as Harry had taken her away.

"How? They could be anywhere."

Evergreen eyes slid closed, head inclining back. His loose black hair brushed across his shoulders, locks well looked after, silky even. Taking a subtle deep breath, Aleister let his eyes open and find Claudia, across the room from him. The woman's blond hair was dull, probably brushed daily and washed, but little else. Her black dress was just as plain, as was fitting to her position. She was a religious woman, and would not herself succumb to vanity.

However, she did let herself question Aleister. Considering the fact that everyone else in the congregation called him Valtiel, Alessa's Angel, the Hand of God, it almost seemed blasphemous that Claudia would ever question him. Aleister was more prone to question himself, so he appreciated it. Blind followers were not strong followers. They needed strong followers in order to weather this storm. The weakest had died early, after all.

"These three are linked." Aleister motioned to the cards with the faces of Mark Dennings, Alan Colefield and Helen Dennings on them. With the way the cards came out, Aleister knew there had to be a connection. "Alan Colefield used to live in the Blue Creek Apartments. He only moved about two years ago. I should start my search there."

"He survived the tempests which have tortured our town?"

"Yes." Aleister checked over the cards again. Alessa was at the center of everything. The Prophet was close to her, but the face was still unclear. It looked like more than one face, actually. Aleister had no idea as to who it could be, though he knew it would come to him eventually. These sorts of things always worked.

"We could just have our faithful seek out this Harry Mason, track him down and wring from him the location of Alessa."

"No." Aleister knew he snapped his answer too quickly. It was not pride making him do this. His pride had been stripped from him some time ago. It was necessity. He had lost her, so he had to find her. Alessa was probably terribly alone out there, and frightened. Aleister could not stand the thought of that. "This is the path we must take.

Claudia left, seemingly indifferent to him, to this plan. Claudia was hungry for power, power and victory. Charging into the middle of things never worked. Aleister knew only a carefully laid plan would success in all points, and he did not wish to lose Alessa forever. That would be inexcusable, both for his own conscience and for their religion. She was the vessel chosen for God, after all… Claudia had always resented that, even as a child, growing up with Alessa. She had always wanted to be the one.

Aleister had to go now. If he did not act quickly, Claudia would put her own plans into motion.

* * *

Heather Mason hummed to herself, coming up the last set of stairs and rounding the corner. She could see the door to her apartment ahead, a sweet smile stretching across her lips. Normally she did not have to walk home from school, but today was an exception. It was nice to walk home alone, able to go at her own pace, breathe in the crisp air and enjoy it. It was relaxing.

Being alone felt normal somehow.

She quickened her stride, brown knee-high boots thudding on the floor as she went. She was wearing a dark green jean skirt today, with an orange sleeveless turtleneck and matching orange wristbands. A white vest with lots of pockets covered most of the turtleneck. She loved having so many pockets. She could carry so much. Her backpack on her back was almost full. It was green with brass things clipped here and there. She liked it.

Not having to fumble with the keys, she put the right one in the slot, turning it. With a smile, she came into the apartment. It had drab wallpaper, and was small, but nice. It was just her and her dad, after all. "Daddy? You home?" There was no answer.

Heather dropped her bag by the door, walking into the living room. The television was on and full of static. Heather flicked the dial off, glancing around. The pictures on the walls were all as they should be, hung straight, snapshots of her and Harry on various adventures. Heather smiled, walking for the kitchen.

Wait.

Taking a few steps back, Heather glanced at the picture again. It was Harry and Heather standing in front of a lake, smiling wide. Back over their shoulders was another face. It was pale, with brown hair, and was staring at them with wide eyes.

The face broke into a grin.

Heather jumped, staring for a few moments longer before darting for the phone. Her dad needed to get home. And now.

* * *

"You can't run." The voice sang it out, slowly, waving her head back and forth. There was a wide grin on her pale face. Her hair was short cropped, brown, uncared for. There was no one left to care for her. "You can't hide." Anna broke out into giggles, leaning forward. It pinched at her arms, the straight jacket still as tight as it was the day they strapped it on her.

She shook back and forth, laughing with a smile. "I see you Alessa."

Her eyes were unfocused, not seeing the padded cell around her, but instead the living room of an apartment. She could see the girl, Alessa, staring at her. It made her laugh some more. The girl had no idea what was growing inside of her, or what was coming for her.

And it was coming.

Anna had seen it.

It was coming.

* * *

Kneeling, he spread the map out on the asphalt, tucking his flashlight in his pocket. There was fog clinging heavily to the streets, obscuring the sky, but there was still enough light to read by. Mark traced the tunnel he went through to enter Silent Hill with his finger, and then moved upward. There were not many paths in and out of Silent Hill. Folding the map and tucking it in his back pocket, Mark stood, getting his bearings quickly.

It had been years since he last traversed these streets.

And that thing… what the hell was that _thing_?

Mark shook his head, clearing the vision of it as he turned south on Lindsay St, walking with steady steps. He had his needed path memorized from that quick glance at the map, knowing to take the next available left. It was a brisk pace he set; Lindsay St came, and Mark kept walking. It looked like the road just ended ahead…

It did.

Winding back his foot, Mark kicked a loose rock, watching as it fell of the edge of the road and into the fog. Mark walked to the edge, looking down. It was like the world just ended right then and there, dropping off into nothingness, like the world had been snapped apart. The buildings on that street fell into the abyss, the power lines trailing down there too. Mark could see tree roots sticking out of the torn ground far below. And there was nothing further south.

Backing away, Mark made his way back to Lindsay St, turning west. There were two cafes on his left, both of which with tarnished glass windows and run down looking insides. There was no one inside, no lights on. It looked like electricity was out. Mark flipped his cell phone around. The time wasn't displaying. There was no signal, still. Mark put his cell back into place. There was no point even checking.

Katz St, according to the map, went straight to the apartments. So long as the earth did not decide to drop off again, he should make an uneventful trip there.

There were no people on the streets, in the windows. Cars sat abandoned and rusting at the side of the street, some parked, some skewed at odd angles. Mark shined his light in a few windows. It was like the people had just vanished one day.

Clicking off the flashlight, he put it back in his pocket again, continuing down Katz St. It did not look like the street vanished again. He could see the apartments again, so familiar but still vague. He was just a kid when he lived there. The front gates which were usually chained and locked were standing wide open, revealing the worn brick faces of the buildings, the large doors.

Mark remembered which building he used to live in, walking straight to the door, testing it. Those double doors swung open, revealing a decrepit foyer complete with a desk up front. Mark tensed. There was someone behind the desk. It was the first person he had seen since the gas station he bought the map at.

Was the person he saw behind the counter, flipping through what looked to be a residency ledger, normal? Not exactly. He had long black hair, nearly entirely straight hanging just past his shoulders. His face was pale like a moon, and green eyes dark, like the forest he had driven through to get to Silent Hill. Mark walked cautiously up to the desk, clearing his throat so he did not startle the man. "Hi. Um… do you work here?"

The man glanced up, expression unreadable as he looked Mark over. Mark did not like that. He was a detective, used to reading people, their every bit of body language. The man was giving him nothing. It was beyond frustrating. Mark decided that even if the man, who was staring at him now, was not an employee, he might as well introduce himself to the first human being he had seen in a while.

"I'm Mark Dennings, a detective from the next county over." He offered a hand forward, waiting expectantly.

"Aleister." The man shook that hand. It was a soft hand, with slender fingers. Mark thought for a second that they would be great hands for a piano, before he remembered that he needed to let go. The man's voice was low and quiet. It sounded like he probably never spoke louder than a whisper, much less shouted. The man's hand was also slightly cold.

It was an interesting name, one Mark had never heard before. As nonchalantly as he could after the earlier scare, Mark motioned towards the stairs heading up into the actual apartments. "Do you mind if I have a look around? I am investigating a man named Alan Colefield—"

"You too?"

Mark blinked. What? There were other people investigating Colefield? That meant there were probably more murders, before even the ones he followed. Mark could feel his heart fluttering. "The murders?"

"Yes."

His blue eyes looked from the dark stairwell back to Aleister's dark eyes. With what had happened earlier, Mark did not want to be alone. If it happened again… It would be safest in numbers. "Want to come with? I know which apartment he lived in for years."

Slowly, Aleister nodded. He was quiet, but seemed intelligent enough, if those keen eyes were any indication. Mark only hoped this new partnership would make things easier.

He needed answers.


	5. Prisonic Fairytale

**Disclaimer:** Konami owns Silent Hill and all characters associated with Silent Hill. I own the other characters, basic plot, and writing.

**Warning:** dark themes, disturbing scenes, morbid subject matter, language, violence, graphic scenes, and everything else that can be found in a Silent Hill game. Be prepared for anything.

**Author's Note:** Still using songs for titles. If you can tell me why I named each chapter what I did, I will love you forever and a day, which is longer than if you just said which game each song is from. Yeah…. I know. I need another hobby than Silent Hill.

* * *

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter V: Prisonic Fairytale**

The nurse peered into her room on the normal rounds, that mutilated face hovering just beyond that small, rectangular window for a moment before heading further down the hall. Click-thump-click-thump her waltz went, with one broken off heel and the other still intact. It was a wonder the nurses could walk at all, sometimes. Sydney watched another one pass. Usually the rounds were once an hour, like it had been when Cedar Grove Sanitarium was just like other loony bin.

Of course, not every Sanitarium was part of Silent Hill. Supposedly the grounds outside were lovely, with a long drive and big trees. Anna had never seen it. They had to sedate her to get her to go anywhere outside the small, confined, dark corner of her own closet, the one place in the house where she could escape from the visions. And now, in this room, she had to live them almost every day.

At least through them she could live a little. She got to follow Alessa around at times. It was a nice escape from the padded cell she was trapped in.

The food plate was mostly gone now, the mold and maggots moving to the padding beneath it now. Sydney made sure to keep away from it.

The massive steel door loomed at the far end of the room, a thick, rusted barrier between her and freedom. There were more barriers than just that. Nurses, or what had become of them, stalked the halls. She was still in a straight jacket. For now, it was too dangerous. So long as the maggots stayed away, she would be fine.

* * *

Hitchhiking was not the most intelligent plan she had ever come up with. Sydney did not have a car of her own, or the money for the gas to drive so far. She did not know the way, either, as the last time she had traveled between the city and Silent Hill was as a child, and it was only a vague memory, still shrouded like the streets had been in fog.

A big rig had stopped by the edge of the highway for her raised thumb, Sydney running through the rain, holding her bag over her head before hoisting herself up into the passenger seat of the truck. The man in the driver's seat smiled.

He had stubble across his chin, and wary brown eyes. A hat sat on his head, just slightly neglected, though not as bad as Sydney was expecting. Then again, she had never met a truck driver before. She put a big smile on her lips, giving a little wave. "Hi. I'm Sydney."

He offered a smaller smile and a nod back. He looked tired, his voice somewhat gruff, but not as deep as she was expecting. "Travis Grady." He let go of the breaks and pressed on the gas, the truck beginning to move again. It was a bad storm, rain pounding the forested highway. The windshield wipers flicked back and forth, back and forth, the only sound other than the soft crackle of the radio and the pounding rain.

"I can only take you so far as the turn off to Brahms, ok?"

"Better than walking it the whole way." Sydney put her bag on her lap, looking out the front window. She'd never been so high up off the road before. It felt like she was sitting atop a vehicle instead of in the cab of one. Either way, it was better than being out in the pouring rain, walking the rest of the way there. There were quite a few miles left to go.

"So, why are you going to Silent Hill?"

Sydney glanced over, having been wringing out her sodden ponytail off to the side. She blinked a few times, damp lashes clinging together. He almost sounded… timid, saying the town's name. It made Sydney wonder. "I grew up there. I want to go back, visit family, y'know." That wasn't the whole truth, but all she would say. This man was a stranger to her, after all.

"Good luck."

He said that as though she needed it. Sydney decided she did not want any more conversation. She couldn't wait for them to finally get to that turn off for Brahms.

* * *

"Did you know Alan Colefield?"

"Hmm?" Mark glanced over, its taking a few seconds for the question to sink in. He had been too busy staring at the decrepit, abandoned walls, with their peeling wallpaper and streaks of mold her and there from too much humidity. It was cold in the halls, his breath making a little white puff every time. He wanted to smoke. There were no smoking signs here and there, not that it mattered. It looked as though no one had lived in the apartments for years. "I used to live in these apartments, next door to him."

The black haired man nodded, still walking in silence. His strides were long and light. He did not slip either, even when there was loose debris everywhere. Mark was having trouble keeping his footing at times, and he was used to working on crime scenes. It made Mark wonder.

"I remember them telling us to stay away from Colefield as children."

Mark looked over more sharply this time, actually stopping in the middle of the dark hallway. He lowered his flashlight, white beam touching the broken and tattered floor. Aleister took a few more steps before finally turning back to face him, lowering his flashlight as well. They both had Maglights, thankfully, meaning the batteries would last for a long time, and the beam was more intense, a crisper white. It helped, considering how run down the apartment was. And yet, Mark felt like he was barely even seeing Aleister. There was a lot hidden under the surface.

"You used to live here too?"

Aleister nodded, turning and continuing on through the hall. The first stairwell they had come to was blocked, the door locked with debris holding it shut. Mark might have burst through otherwise. He tried, slamming up against the door with his shoulder a few times before finally giving up. Now they were searching for another way up, and finding none so far. They checked a few of the rooms along the way, most of the doors locked, the others opening into empty apartments, just as desolate as everything else.

Glass crunched beneath his foot, Mark looking down. It looked like someone had been throwing bottles, some with liquid still in them, since the floor beneath the glass was stained darker. He left red foot prints after he crossed through the shards. Mark knew it was not his own feet, though the glass cuts on them from before, at home, were starting to bother him. He had been on his feet too long. They might get infected. The first chance he got, Mark needed to get his shoes off and deal with the cuts.

There was no chance yet.

Mark saw Aleister flinch, before he leaned against the wall. It almost looked like he was shaking. Mark stopped, watching from a safe distance. Aleister clamped a hand over his mouth, darting through the door he was beside, vanishing within. Mark could hear the retching noises from out there, and decided not to follow him. He did, however, take a few more strides forward.

There was blood smeared on the walls, forming letters, words.

ALESSA IS DEAD! ALESSA IS DEAD! ALESSA IS DEAD!

He knelt, reaching out hesitantly. The blood was still fresh, glistening on his fingertip as he touched it. Mark quickly wiped it off on his pant leg. There was no telling what disease might have been in the blood. He should not have touched it at all.

The detective— ex-detective— sat down on the edge of the hallway, back against the wall. He could see down both ways. If he ignored it, the retching sound wasn't so bad.

* * *

He heaved, nothing coming out. Each one was dry, tore at his stomach, his throat. Cramps tore through his body, every limp. Aleister sank to his knees, leaning forward on the dingy toilet. He was shaking head to foot, vision hazy. Another set of cramps tore through his body, Aleister trying not to close his eyes against the pain, because the darkness provided just made him more nauseous.

His arm… He watched with wide eyes as the skin on his own arm shivered, all of the veins becoming more visible, like dark red lines just painted beneath the surface of his pale skin. It wavered, white skin fluctuating to yellow for a moment, veins becoming more pronounced as though they were leaking blood in every direction. With each cramp, he went from normal to… to _this_.

Seeing the blood on the floor had triggered it.

Alessa wasn't dead. She wasn't. It was wrong. Alessa couldn't be dead. No. She wasn't. It lied.

Aleister forced himself to sit up more, using the back of the toilet to hoist himself up. The cramps dissipated, becoming lighter, less painful, until they stopped all together. He was perhaps a little more ashen than before, his eyes slightly bloodshot, but that was the only difference. Aleister brought his hands up to his lips, feeling liquid. He drew his hand away.

There was blood on his fingers. Aleister leaned on the counter, feeling another wave of nausea boiling in his stomach. He looked slowly up at the mirror. He definitely seemed paler, and his veins were slightly more pronounced, almost purple, like a person with hypothermia might look. His lips were even slightly bluish.

This had to stop, and soon. There was already too much he had to explain to Mark; Aleister did not want to, but he needed the detective's trust to make this work.

Alessa had to be returned to Silent Hill.

This could not get in his way.

Stumbling at first, Aleister moved away from the sink, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom before making his way out into the main room of the apartment.

Something moved in the dark.

It twitched, head tilting to the side. It barely resembled a head, ovular in shape, but with no features on it. Its neck was leathery in texture, stretched up over the bottom part of the head, sown onto it with thick cord. It twitched again, head tilting to the opposite side. Aleister clicked on his flashlight, shining the beam over towards it. Its torso was the same shiny white plastic as the head, in a female shape, complete with a naval and breasts.

The thing was sitting on a table. Its arms were of the same shriveled flesh as the neck, skin stretched out over the shoulders and sown to it with that same thick twine. The table itself was covered in blood, as though its torso had been severed from a body before being sown onto the table.

Those ghastly, greenish arms lifted, almost moving as if in a dance, waving back and forth. Its torso remained unmoving, solid and glossy. Aleister clicked off his flashlight. It stopped moving. He could barely see it in the dim lighting, but it was just enough to know it stilled. Slowly, as quietly as he could, Aleister edged around the room, back out of the door.

Mark was waiting outside, sitting on the floor of all things. Aleister closed the door behind him, wiping a hand across his mouth. He quickly wiped the blood off from the back of his hand, onto his pants, where it would not be seen against the black material. He just hoped Mark did not notice.

"You alright?"

Aleister nodded, leaning heavily against the wall. He let his evergreen gaze roam down as he ran a hand back through his black hair, smoothing it back. The writing was still on the floor, still glistening. Who would have written that? And why? He could feel it in his very being that Alessa was alive, though far away. Even with their distance, he could feel her every sorrow, her every joy, yet he could not see her, where she was. She was just out of reach, and it was the most frustrating thing in the world.

This would change it all.

"We should get moving."

Quickly, he turned, continuing down the hall, towards the far end of it. There was a staircase on that end, or at least there was when he was last in the apartments. There was also an emergency ladder just outside the far door. Aleister tested the handle. It rattled but nothing came of it. He looked through the dirty, dingy window, seeing more debris blocking their way.

That meant there was only one way up.

The door at the end of the hall was already slightly ajar, as though it was waiting for them. Aleister opened it, peering out into the fog filled alley he was confronted with. There was a good fall from that door, a possibility. Aleister let his gaze trail downward. He could not even see the street, so choked with the mist it was. Next he looked to the sides, first left, seeing nothing but brick wall, and then to the right, where he saw the rusted old ladder.

Leaning back into the hall, Aleister let his eyes rake over Mark for a moment, judging his weight. He must have weighed a little less than Aleister, as the black-haired Silent Hill native was taller by a few inches, even if their muscle build was about the same. "I will go first. After I am up, I'll call back down to you. I don't think this ladder can hold both of us at the same time."

Not waiting for an answer, Aleister swung himself out of the door and onto the ladder. It was precariously hanging, but would have to do.

* * *

The already poor lighting of the hall dimmed further, like a cloud went over the sun. Mark blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from his vision. He glanced towards the open door, fog floating by that precarious opening. It was just as bright out there as it had been a few moments earlier. Mark leaned his head out. Aleister was getting his footing on the ladder, giving it a shake to make sure it was stable. The ladder barely moved, just groaning slightly, which was not more reassuring. With that test done, Aleister started climbing up, slowly and carefully. He was testing every rung before putting his full weight on it.

It was a smart idea, since they were starting from the second floor and it was a long way down.

Leaning back inside, Mark let his tired gaze roam down the dark hallway. It seemed ever more shadowed than a few moments ago.

That was when he heard the scrape.

It was long, dragging. Mark could hear the crunch of broken glass. Taking in a deep breath, he lifted his flashlight, pressing the button on the back of it only once the beam was aimed. That white beam shot out, making all the shadows around it seem that much blacker. Mark took a step forward, further away from the emergency ladder door.

The flashlight's beam glinted off the glossy crimson surface of an elongated pyramid. Mark stopped his advance, legs freezing in place. The things shoulders shifted, right one jerking hard forward, a long, loud screech coming with it. Mark listened carefully. He had heard no sirens this time. The hall around them was not changing. Them. It was like he was calling the creature a being.

Mark took a step backward, and the thing lumbered on forward, not stopping its jerky, nightmarish advance. He could still hear Aleister making his slow, merry way up the ladder. With the snail's pace he had, he would not be up yet. The Red Pyramid continued to lurch onward.

Slowly, Mark pulled his gun out of the holster at his side. He lifted it, holding the flashlight steady with it. Would the pyramid shatter if he shot it? Could he even injure it? Mark shuffled back again. The gap between them was closing, slowly but surely. Mark pushed his feet back again, feeling the lip where the hallway dropped off into the alley, a sheer fall.

He leaned out, looking up the ladder. Aleister was only half way there. Mark kept his aim. His hands were trembling. The Red Pyramid continued forward, left hand wavering in the air, right shoulder jutting forward and then hanging at an awkward position back as the body moved forward and the weight of the massive knife held part of him back. It was decidedly male, from the musculature Mark could see on its chest. It was chiseled, ripped, like a bloody and battered marble statue.

Taking a shaky breath, Mark leaned out of the hall again. Aleister was getting closer, but still not there. The Red Pyramid was getting closer. Soon enough, it would be close enough to lift its blade, lash out with it. With the confined space of the hallway, it could probably only thrust forward.

There was nowhere for Mark to dodge to.

Mark leaned out of the door, reaching around with his flashlight hand, gripping the ladder. Aleister was almost up.

"I'm done!"

Immediately, Mark pulled himself onto the ladder, scrambling. He hurried up, not testing first, moving up the corroded, rusted surface quickly. It felt like his heart was going to explode. The third floor balcony was in sight.

* * *

Mark slung himself inside the hall and immediately flopped on his back, breaths in gasps, face flushed. Aleister jumped at the sudden thud, bringing his gaze from the pitch black hallway to the detective. The detective's mouth opened and shut like a goldfish taken out of its bowl, his words no better. "We have to go… before it follows me up…"

"Before what follows you up?"

The detective shook his head, oily blond hair falling messily around his face. It looked like it had not been cared for in a while. That was not the sort of image Aleister expected to be presented by a police officer. Then again, Aleister had yet to see a badge. He was not the type to trust people, either.

"That _thing_. It… it has this pyramid where its head should be."

Anyone else would have thought Mark was stark raving mad. Aleister knew better. A black brow arched up, Aleister barely turning his head. A lock of his own, tended for black hair fell in front of his face, Aleister immediately flicking it back. "The red pyramid is a manifestation of a person's subconscious guilt. Feeling guilty about something, Mark?"

"I…" Mark lipped his lips. They still looked dry, slightly chapped. Aleister kept his spot leaned against the wall, hands tucked behind him. Mark couldn't see it, but Aleister had one hand on the gun tucked into the back of his pant's waistband. In fact, Mark had yet to comment on the gun at all yet. It was like he had not noticed. What a good detective. Mark sat up, shaking, slightly paler for the experience. "Alan Colefield… he murdered my wife."

That did not explain why the Red Pyramid would be after Mark. Aleister had seen paintings of the creature in the Silent Hill Historical Society's building. They said it was an ancient symbol of an executioner, who came from the depths of hell to punish those who have sinned, those who wanted to be punished for their sins. Most people did not even realize what it is they did wrong, and the Red Pyramid was there because of the subconscious trying to make them aware of it.

Which case was Mark? Aleister just knew he was no longer comfortable leading, with Mark behind him and obviously armed. Aleister had managed to survive Silent Hill this long already. He refused to die now.

There were two options. Either Mark was going to this Alan Colefield's apartment in hopes of finding him there and killing him, or he had already killed him. Both were unpleasant, to say the least. Aleister had had to kill before. They had become monsters, though; it was out of mercy. Whatever it was Mark was doing, it was revenge.

"The man has not lived here at the Blue Creek Apartments for two years. Why would you be investigating him here?"

"I want to know why he did it." There was a thickness to Mark's voice, a tension to his jaw; Aleister was certain the blond was trying to hold back tears. Everyone who ended up in Silent Hill had lost something, though. Aleister was used to it. Mark finally pushed himself to stand, looking with a nervous paranoia back down the alley, the ladder. From the relieved look he had, Aleister knew nothing was climbing up. "He said we all used to live here, right next to one another. I don't remember."

It was obvious Mark had left before the entire town went to hell, though there was no definite date for the event. People were still living there in an oblivious bliss for years after the first incident. Slowly but surely, the taint took hold everywhere. Now, even the sane and strong of faith were having trouble navigating the streets without some horrors following them around, taunting them, trying to pull them too into what seemed an inevitable madness.

So far, Aleister had been safe.

"You killed him." The accusation was flat, not judgmental or congratulatory, just flat. Aleister did not care one way or the other, so long as he knew. He did not want to be surprised by coming around a corner and ending up face to face (or rather, pyramid) with the Executioner. So long as he knew, he could prepare for it.

Mark nodded, sagging heavily against the crumbling drywall and peeling wallpaper next to him. Aleister stopped leaning on the wall, dusting the bits of refuse off his still white dress shirt. How he kept it so white even in state Silent Hill was in, would always remain a mystery. Then again, Aleister had always been somewhat obsessed with cleanliness, neatness. It was a wonder he had survived in the twisted town for so long.

"I need to find out why."

"Lead the way, then." Aleister motioned for Mark to go on forward. He had no intention of letting a homicidal cop stay behind him, out of sight like that, armed. Armed for now, at least. Aleister was already eyeing that gun as Mark put it back in his holster, beneath his left arm.

The detective had to sleep some time.


	6. Hometown

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill or any of the characters therein. They are the hard work of Konami. Go bye the Silent Hill series. You won't sleep for a while again, trust me. I merely came up with this story, which takes place not long before the third game.

**Warning:** violence, blood and gore, morbid stuffs, dark themes, disturbing images, language, possibility of death and other such things. If it can be found in a Silent Hill game, it can be found here. Be ready for anything. This fic is rated at R18/M for a reason.

**Author's Note:** LDWriMo, still. I am slowing down, though, which is never good. The chapter titles are still from SH OST songs.

* * *

**SILENT HILL: CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter VI: Hometown**

The big rig rumbled to a stop at the side of the road, Travis seeming to take his time with the breaks, applying weight on them. It had been a quiet ride, except for the crackle of the static filled radio now and then. Whenever the radio went off, Travis gave it a timid glance, and then let his brown eyes roam outside the windows worriedly. It was making Sydney nervous, but it was over now, as the truck finally came to a full stop.

"I hope you find what you're looking for there." Travis nodded down the road that led to Silent Hill, not looking along that path for long. Sydney had never expected to meet a truck driver who was so… solemn. Most of the horror stories she had heard were about rowdy men who did bad things to young women like herself. Then again, Sydney wasn't stupid. She was carefully watching for any signs of trouble, hand near the pepper spray in her bag.

"Thanks."

It was not raining so bad now. Sydney pushed the door open with a heave, lowering herself down on the first step before hopping onto the side of the road. The grass was soft, squished under the impact of her weight. Sydney held her bag up over her head with one hand, pushing the heavy door shut with the other. That done, she gave a cheery smile and waved good bye.

The man, Travis Grady, seemed all too happy to go, truck moving onward and down the turn-off for Brahms immediately. It was like he thought there was something wrong with Silent Hill, or had some bad memories of the place. Sydney could barely remember it, only the dreams giving her a clue. There was fog and sirens and this woman, Alessa. It was so vague and jumbled. Sydney wanted to piece it all back together.

Once the big rig vanished down the other way, Sydney started walking, moving up onto the road. The storm wasn't so bad that they would not see her in the road. She was wearing a yellow hooded sweater, with wide stripes of slightly lighter and slightly darker. Her faded jeans were tight, low cut, a fashion some of her students wore. She still had the figure to wear them, kept by ballet, but some of her students still looked at her odd when they saw her out in the 'real world'.

On the asphalt of the main road again, Sydney started walking faster. Her shoes were not the most comfortable, flats, black with white polka dots and a yellow bow each, but they were the ones she had put on. Sydney had hoped to be able to catch drivers the entire way there. The road to Silent Hill looked abandoned. Even the massive green trees were leering down at her, so tall but at the same time twisted, mutated in a way. Sydney started walking faster. She did not like the shadows under the trees.

The road made a slow wind, as if coiling around the side of a wayward, snake-like cliff. Sydney kept going. The rain fluctuated between pouring and a drizzle. It was like the clouds could not make up their minds. Sydney just wished the storms could stop. How much water could be up there, anyway? There was only so much which could be stored.

As if in response, it started pouring again. Sydney would not have been surprised if cats and dogs started falling from the sky, too. Her yellow sweater was soaked, bright green spaghetti strap tank-top showing beneath. It did not matter, though she was shivering from the cold, and her nipples, pointing like there was no tomorrow, had to protest. As embarrassing as it felt, there was no one to see them.

Sydney would have been running had it not been for the lack of traction on the bottom of her shoes, and the rain slicking her path. The lake path would be even worse, considering it was all of dirt, and would be mud by now, if not entirely washed away. Thinking of which, Sydney knew she would be able to see the lake soon, if the rain let up a little. Toluca Lake was big and calm and beautiful. Sydney remembered the first day the mist moved from the lake top into the rest of the town.

They were on a field trip down to the lake, getting some rowboats ready. They were going to fish. Right when everyone was about to launch their boats, the mist thickened into heavy fog, and it started rolling off the dark water's surface. They had to cancel the trip. When the group made it back to Midwich Elementary, the entire town was blanketed in the fog.

That was the first time Sydney could recall hearing the sirens. Sister Lillian Trevelli, their teacher that year, a nun, had them hide under the desks. She was such a nice woman. She helped them stay calm despite the eclipse.

Blinking, she stopped walking. Sydney had never remembered that before. Closing her eyes, taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to start moving again. This place was bound to stir up memories. That was the whole reason she was coming.

* * *

"_Harry?" The voice was strained, just barely above a whisper. Immediately it brought his head around, flashlight beam cutting through the decaying room to catch the speaker in the corner. Lisa's nurse dress was still just as white as it was when they first met. Her bright red sweater was draped over her trembling shoulders, feet seeming uneasy in their red heels._

"_Lisa… what's the matter with you?"_

"_I get it now…" Her voice was so calm. "Why I'm still alive even though everyone else's dead." There was a sad look in her eyes, which Harry could not miss. "I'm not the only one still walking around. I'm the same as them. I just hadn't noticed it before."_

"_Lisa?"_

"_Stay by me Harry! Please? I'm so scared. Help me…" She sounded on the verge of tears, desperation. "Save me from them." Lisa started walking towards him, nervous steps, slow steps, as though every one of them was creeping across eggshells. She stretched out her arms. They were trembling. "Please…. Harry…."_

_He couldn't help but take a few steps back, away, raise his hands over his face. There was madness in her blue eyes. Silent Hill was doing this to her. It was killing her, changing her. He felt sick._

_Crying, Lisa scrambled away, hitting the rusted, streaked wall hard, clinging to it. Harry watched in horror. He couldn't stop this. Nothing he could have done would have stopped this._

_Blood trickled down in a single stream from her blond hairline, running across her eye, down her cheek. Lisa pushed off from the wall, stumbling, knees almost giving out before she righted her balance, still staggering. Blood started running from her nose, a thicker stream of it from her mouth, down her neck, beginning to soak her white nurse dress._

_Staggering again, she started lurching towards him, face completely slicked red as a fountain of blood came down from her hairline, staining her nurse's hat, covering his neck and bust to completely drench her dress. With a groan and sob, she reached for him._

Harry bolted upright with a cry, arms thrown up over his face, breaths hard. He was trembling, skin slicked with sweat.

That nightmare again?

With a shaking sigh, Harry glanced over at the digital clock beside his bed. He had not woken up to his alarm. As quickly as he could, still recovering from the nightmare, Harry slid out of bed, flicking on the light. He was going to be late for work. Heather was going to be late for school because of him, too. Running a hand over his face, Harry tried not to concentrate on anything but getting ready. Luckily he had taken a shower before sleep.

Harry dragged himself across the room, only giving a sideways glance at the family portrait on the wall. He went into the bathroom, splashing cold water across his face, shaking it off. It had felt like he was there, living it again. Silent Hill had been hell then. He had Heather because of it, though. Harry wanted to thank Alessa. At the same time, he wanted to ask why she was doing these things to Silent Hill, to the people that had raised her, taken care of her. There were a few bad apples, yes, but there were so many innocents lost.

What had Lisa Garland ever done but care for Alessa?

Sagging for a moment against the counter, Harry looked up at the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes. Some faint streaks of silver were showing in his brown hair. Harry pushed himself away from the counter, walking back into his bedroom.

The portrait on the wall was different.

He let his eyes trail over to it. They were at a faire, with the carousel in the background. All of the horses were ornate, prettier than the ones Harry remembered as a child. He and Heather were standing there, smiling for the photographer. There was someone just behind Heather, who Harry did not remember being there. The woman had a pale face and big eyes, with short dark hair. She was smiling.

Harry shook his head, deciding the woman must have been there, he just didn't remember it. He was out of sorts. The nightmare always did this to him. Pulling a shirt out of the closet, Harry slung it on his arms, buttoning the front. He tucked it into his dress slacks, combing his hair quickly before finally moving out into the living room, where Heather was already waiting for him.

A smile crossed his lips at seeing her. She was always in bright colors, always grinning. Heather was happy here. Harry hoped Alessa could see that.

He could forget about the dream anyway. It didn't matter anymore.

* * *

Mark led the way, making a quick path down the silent, abandoned hall. Last he had heard, his parents still lived in these apartments. It made him wonder, made him worry. It seemed like all of the residents of Silent Hill were gone, a long time ago, too. Come to think of it, the last time he had heard from his parents was three years ago. He was too busy as a detective to take time to write them. Most of the time, he had been too busy to even see Helen outside of when he crawled into bed late at night. That was just to say 'good night' before he drifted off, and a few hours later he would just be getting back up, to go back to the office. Mark had always been a work-aholic.

Some of the doors on his right and left still had their numbers attached, though most were tarnished, darkened by years of abuse from moisture. No one was there to wipe the numbers clean. Mark tested a knob to his right, door coming open. He flashed his light around, seeing nothing in the main room. Everything was neglected, run down. Mark closed the door again, continuing on his way.

Around the corner was where Mark had lived as a child. Supposedly, Alan Colefield had been his next door neighbor. Mark still did not believe that, could not believe that. It made Mark wonder if Colefield was targeting a more specific group than just former Silent Hill residents, but perhaps people who lived in the Blue Creek Apartments. According to Colefield, Helen had lived there too.

But why trust a murderer?

Mark kept walking, counting his steps. It did not matter, how many steps he took, but it kept his mind off things. He needed to remain concentrated. Mark glanced over his shoulder. Aleister was following about ten feet back, glancing to the sides every so often. His evergreen eyes were keen, if somewhat cold. There were a lot of questions Mark wanted to ask, but found himself shying away from. As a detective, there were not many questions that made Mark squeamish, or that he was uncomfortable asking. For some reason, Aleister seemed unapproachable.

Perhaps it was the confident way he carried himself, even in this decrepit halls. Mark decided that had to be it. What other explanation could there be? It was not like Aleister was a monster, like that thing with the pyramid as its head. He wasn't a monster, right? Mark glanced back again, just to make sure. Aleister still looked like Aleister. Though the man was a bit pale, he was not terrifying.

That was reassuring, if just a little.

Sirens cut through the air.

His eyes widened, hand immediately straying for his gun. He stopped walking, glancing back. It was obvious from the way Aleister's head was craned upward, eyes searching around, that he heard it too. Mark wasn't going crazy, thankfully. Those green eyes narrowed, Aleister closing most of the gap between them, until there were just two feet left. "Stay close to me."

Nodding, Mark did not need to be told twice. He took an apprehensive step closer to Aleister, standing a little further from the wall as he saw the paint and wallpaper start to lift off, peeling away to reveal metal, covered in rust and corrosion.

It was just like in that tunnel. It was happening again. Mark watched in horror as the carpet sunk down, seeping in to cracks and holes as the floor became metal grating and beams. His heart was pounding a million miles an hour, breath hitching, quickening. It was happening again. Half of him was glad it was not just a delusion of his mind, that someone else was here with him, living it too. Half of him was horrified to find it real.

The transformation left them in a metal hallway, with orange streaks of rust and dark red stripes down the walls, glistening just enough to hint they might be of blood. There were drawings on the solid parts of the walls. It looked like a kid had taken a crimson crayon and doodled on the walls, all sorts of designs, with people, and cartoonish buildings, and fires.

Taking a few deep breaths, Mark started forward again. Aleister trailed right behind him, theirs steps echoing loudly in the hall. There were chains hanging from parts of the ceiling, swaying in an artificial breeze, jingling, clanking.

Luckily, Mark heard no long scrape of metal against metal. He hoped his luck remained.

The sirens stopped wailing, but nothing went back to normal. Mark was not sure how much time had elapsed already, or how long he had been in that tunnel. There was no way to judge when this would be over. Mark knew to just keep walking. It would end eventually, right? That was what he was hoping.

Rounding the sharp corner, Mark raised his gun. There was nothing but a row of prison looking doors, with little slit windows up top. It looked like someone had thrown acid at the doors and let it eat away from a while, leaving the surface full of tiny bumps and little pin sized holes. Mark turned his flashlight off, pocketing it. From beneath them was a slight red glow, giving enough light to see everything by. What that light came from, Mark had no idea.

There was a massive fan at the far end of the hall, huge blades spinning with slow whooshes. That fan created the artificial wind the chains swayed in. It was blowing hot air. Mark tugged on the collar of his dress shirt; it still felt smothering, sweltering. He glanced back, Aleister still close behind him, a little sweat glistening on his alabaster skin. The man seemed not to care, or at least not showing if he did. It was almost as if Aleister was used to it.

That thought made a shiver creep up Mark's spine. He shook it out of himself, wiggling his shoulders and continuing to walk. That hall ended short. Mark counted the doors. His was at the far end of the hall, right next to the fan. That was where his parents lived. Mark ran for it, hearing Aleister swear softly behind him and dash after. The detective skidded to a stop, looking through the blades of the fan.

There was more hallway beyond it.

Quickly Mark let his gaze rove the hall. There were no exposed pipes that he could reach, only one running across the top right cover of the hall. Mark traced his steps back, walking to the nearest chain. Jumping, Mark grabbed onto it, tugging down with his full weight. Nothing happened. The chain was secure, not coming down. Mark let go, dropping back down to the metal floors.

There had to be a way through that fan.

Mark stepped in something that squished.

Cringing, he looked down. It was a large bug, the guts of it spreading across the grating, on the bottom of his shoe. Mark scraped it off, grimacing. It smelled putrid. There was another oversized bug on the wall, staring at him. Mark reached out, trying not to concentrate on what he was doing as he grabbed the bug. It was bigger than his hand, squirming, legs flailing as he held it in the air.

Dashing back to the fan, Mark launched it.

The fan was spinning just fast enough that it cut the bug in half. Impressive, though irritating. Mark had never thought something so rusted would be so sharp. They could not hope to just hop through during a gap. It would cleave them in half, Mark was sure. Or it would at least try. The last thing Mark needed was to be injured, considering what he had seen so far.

Taking a deep breath, Mark tried the knob at the end of the hall. It turned. He flung the door open, not raising his gun, not calling out. He just stared in. It was nothing like the apartment he remembered. The tiled floors were replaced by square panels of metal, nailed down haphazardly. The furniture was all of barbed wire. Mark took a timid step inside. The oven was just a barbed wire frame, with a fire burning inside. The ridge looked like a thick barred cage, some mass of decaying flesh trapped within, writhing, shaking, trying to get out futilely.

Mark clamped a hand over his mouth, suppressing a gag at the smell. It was hot in the room, hotter than it had been in the hall. And that stench! Mark choked on the taste of bile, swallowing roughly. There were drag marks on the floors, streaks of blood. They led from the door. Aleister was right behind him as he walked the curving path. It led them past the creature in the fridge-cage, into a small hallway. The door it went under was his own.

It was the room Mark had grown up in. A hot stinging filled his eyes, Mark holding his breath. He shoved the door open.

The room looked like the only normal one in the apartments.

Grey tiles composed the floor, fake ceramic, like the rest of the apartment was supposed to have. The walls were painted a medium, dusty blue. There were posters of bands and sports athletes up on those walls. The bed was sloppily made, with the same dusty blue color in the sheets, though they were striped. A large dresser stood against the far wall, tall and dark. The bloody drag marks led under that dresser.

Timidly, Mark took a step in, afraid the room might mutate with his presence. Nothing happened. Mark took another step, holding his breath as he looked around. It was just like he had left it. He could even see the lopsided cardboard box sticking partially out from under his bed, where as a teenager he had stashed porn his friends at school gave him, since he could never acquire any of his own. It made a smile crack onto the grim line of his lips, if barely.

Those were the days.

Next to the massive dresser were scrape marks, both on the wall to the left, and the same direction on the floor. Mark approached the dresser on the right, putting his shoulder up against it, pushing. It was hard. He strained, more sweat beading above his brow, sliding down the side of his face. He grunted. Aleister joined him, pushing as well. The dresser began to slide, slowly but surely.

The drag marks continued down through, into the room on the other side.

There had been a whole door behind the dresser.


	7. A World of Madness

**Disclaimer:** Silent Hill and all characters found therein are the property of Konami and Team Silent. All scenes from the games are also property of them, though I am translating said visual scenes into words and writing. The story itself and arc is mine.

**Warning:** Silent Hill is a survival/psychological horror, filled with blood, gore, disturbing images, violence, morbidity, death and sexual insinuations. This fic is rated M/R18+ for a reason.

**Author's Note:** Finally, my massively violated muse has agreed to let me go at it again! Whoo! Too bad university is back on the 25th. Hopefully the first week doesn't kill me too hard with homework. Since I don't have work until the Friday after, I should be able to pump some more out.

* * *

**SILENT HILL: CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter VII: A World of Madness**

Sydney cracked a smile when she saw the big sign proclaiming: Welcome to Silent Hill. She was almost there. It was just a little further. She was tired. Not all of her steps were as firm as they had been when Travis dropped her off, but she had to get going. Through the grey haze of rain, Sydney could not see Toluca Lake, or anything twenty feet away, really.

She pressed on faster, half jogging.

The first buildings came into view.

Everything looked abandoned, like the people had packed up and left, just like she and her mother did all of those years ago. The paint was faded, not as bright as Sydney remembered. Rust touched corners and creases in signs. The fluorescent lights probably did not even turn on anymore. Sydney walked for the sidewalk, stepping up under the ledge. She was out of the rain for a moment, finally.

Shivering, Sydney opened her bag, pulling out a laminated map of Silent Hill. She found where she was quickly. Pressing the map up on the wall, she traced the road she took in with her index finger, down to where she was now, the buildings around her. There was a café near by. Sydney turned slightly, looking around. With the rain still pounding down, it was hard to see much of anything. She counted how many buildings down it would be, counting the buildings as she walked past them.

Soon enough she was at the front of a café. The open sign was long since dead, Sydney testing the door and finding it open. She walked right in. There was no one, Sydney calling out, no response coming back at her. All of the people were gone. Sighing, Sydney put her bag down on a table, laying down in the cushioned booth next to it. Getting comfortable, she closed her eyes.

* * *

The door was not something he remembered from his youth. Mark held up his flashlight, clicking it on. The thin white beam sliced through the semi-darkness of the normal room, LED bulb buzzing just slightly. During the years Mark had lived in these apartments, with his parents, he had never once seen the door. Then again, Mark could not remember them ever moving that dresser, because of how heavy it was. Mark had never liked that piece of furniture, but it was part of the room, so he had to deal with it.

Had the door been there the entire time?

Taking a deep breath, holding it, Mark stretched forward, knocking. The wooden door was sturdy, not soft and rotten like Mark expected. After a few moments of silence, Mark let that breath out. There was no one on the other side, at least not anyone who could respond. Mark turned, head turning with it. His hair, greasier than he remembered, slid over his forehead, the tips of a few strands prodding his eye in that motion. Mark shoved it all back. He needed a haircut. Better than that, he needed a shower.

Aleister almost looked timid of the room. He lingered just a step outside of it, in the nightmarish hell that was the rest of the apartment. Those dark green eyes were flicking over every perfectly normal corner of Mark's former room as though he did not trust it, as though he expected it to spontaneously combust at any moment now.

Mark listened closely. The thing in that fridge cage, writhing, trying to get free from the straps and wires and blades that kept it bound, seemed to have settled down, calmed even. Mark could still hear the fan whirring outside the apartment. This room, on the outer side of the apartment, was close to the fan. The bathroom across the hall from this bedroom would be right next to the fan. Mark was almost afraid to look in there, but knew he had to.

What bathroom would be safer, after all?

Groaning, Mark pushed past Aleister, heading across the hall. He tried the knob. It was locked. Sighing, Mark pulled one of the wires off the wall, fitting it in to the hole beside the knob, giggling. Soon enough he heard the click, tossing the wire aside before opening the door.

It took clapping his hand over his mouth and turning away not to vomit, though dry heaves came anyway. Mark could not even remember the last time he ate, though he knew it had to be within the last three days. The tremors which shook his body were entirely unrelated to hunger. Those things… Mark got up on his knees, trembling arms barely helping to push him away from the floor. He could see Aleister coming out of the bathroom, those perfectly polished shoes all that made it into his field of vision.

"Do you have a lighter?"

"Huh?" Mark forced his head up, able to see the legs now, but still not the face.

"We need to burn the eggs before they hatch."

Aleister sounded so calm, like nothing out of the ordinary was going on at all, as if there were not writhing masses of blood and disfigured flesh in the tub, of all places. Mark leaned back against the wall, feeling the lumpy texture of thick chicken-wire through the material of his stained dress shirt. Now that Mark took to looking, observing, Aleister was much like the bedroom; untouched, unphased despite it all. It made him nervous.

Fishing in his pant pocket, Mark pulled out a cigarette, fitting it between his lips. The lighter came next, little flame held up to the end of the cigarette. Mark inhaled. The end turned orange, a coil of smoke lifting off the white paper. Mark flicked the lighter shut, tossing it over. While Aleister went back into the bathroom, Mark took a deep drag, smoke filling his lungs. He exhaled, sagging back into the hard metal wall.

It had been a while since he last smoked too, and he could feel it taking effect immediately. He almost laughed. He had been so busy running like hell that he had not even noticed the nicotine withdrawals, the headaches because of it, the nausea too. And now, sitting on the heated floor, he could feel it.

Half a cigarette later, Aleister was coming back out of the bathroom, and tossed the lighter at him. Mark managed to catch it despite the fact that his hand was shaking, shoving the little metal thing back into his pocket. The fallen detective did not move any more, at least not more than putting the cigarette back to his lips for another drag, a deep one as all had been so far. Taking a piss could wait a few moments. The nicotine was more important.

Taking the last bit, Mark put out the cigarette on the floor, letting it fall between the grating of the floor. There was no point in finding an ashtray in this hell. Mark used the wall to guide himself back to standing, leaning heavily against it. He went back into the bathroom. Those things in the tub were still on fire, screaming. The shrill sound was grating, but nowhere near as bad as the sight of them had been. Mark felt like he was going to explode, so he did not waste any time pulling down his zipper.

* * *

It was a strange phenomena, one he had not been able to fully explore. It was almost as if the creatures were afraid of him. The eggs— at least that is what they had vaguely resembled— had actually squirmed, recoiled as if trying, in the constriction of their tub to get further away from him. Aleister never understood this world of madness; he had not tried until now. And now, he was dumb enough to try and explain the unexplainable, or at least test the waters to see how deep they ran.

Aleister was not sure if he wanted to know. Down the hall, Mark had just gone into the restroom, locking himself in with the egg pyre. At least there were no other entries or exits to that room. With the burning of the creatures, the only threats within were eliminated. Mark was safe alone. For a few minutes Aleister could relax, stop thinking about protecting the lamb, stop thinking of his plans and how he would finally weave everything together.

There was a creature caged in what must have been the kitchen, and Aleister was keen on experimentation, on learning more about this fear the creatures seemed to feel towards him. It was a curious phenomena. Aleister wanted to see more of it. He walked quickly for the 'kitchen' of the apartment. There was little time. He had to be done before Mark could get out of the bathroom, discover him, what he could do, what he was. It would ruin his plans.

The cage almost looked like it had been a fridge in the world of sanity. There were thick, black steel bars, encasing the rectangular area, about the size of a refrigerator. It looked like there was mud and corrosion and rust and blood crusted to the bars. Inside was Aleister's target. It almost seemed human, or at least humanoid. There was what looked to be a head, covered in a liquid slicked leather mask. That head shook now and then, as if convulsing. One arm was stretched up, elbow bent back at the wrong angle, hand missing in place of a nub, which hung on a thick metal hook. There was just a round of flesh protruding from the shoulder, where another arm should have been.

Aleister clicked on his flashlight, shining the beam on the featureless face. It started writhing, pushing against the bars, towards the light. Aleister clicked the flashlight off and the creature stilled, only a tick of two from the head giving any hint that it was ever alive.

Could that kind of existence even be considered life?

There was still a good ten feet between him and the creature. Aleister took a step, watching it in the flickering red light cast by what he felt he could assume was an oven. It was just barbed wire and a flame now, but about the right size. Aleister took another step. It twitched, head lulling from one side to the other. Now that Aleister was closer, it looked as though the thing had no separation for legs; its skin created a muscle-tight bag, a mangled uni-leg like some twisted mermaid. It started writhing.

Taking another step as a test, Aleister watched as it began to shake, pressing as far back to the wall of the cage as possible. Aleister mused that the creature might cut itself into strips with how much it was trying to get away. He took the last few steps, bridging the last few feet; Aleister stood almost against the cage. He wrapped his fingers around a bar, pressing his face against them. In a hushed, almost amused whisper he addressed it, as though it was still human.

"Am I one of you?"

It shook, more violently than it had before, slamming hard against the back bars. It made no sound other than that which came from its clamor. Wait. Aleister turned his head, pressing his left ear between two bars, listening carefully to the barely audible rasp as it recoiled from him, trembling. "I… not… you…" It almost sounded like the creature was sobbing. "Monster… monster… monster…"

Aleister pulled away, staring at it. It was the pot calling the kettle black, wasn't it? Wasn't it? The way it was cowering from him spoke otherwise.

The door opened down the hall, Aleister moving back from the cage in a sharp jerk. Five feet and already the creature was settling back down. Immediately he set to moving around, looking around. There was a lot of debris scattered through the kitchen, strewn about like a tornado had come through. Broken glass clung to the corner. It might have been a bottle at one point, Aleister bale to make out a tattered and worn label amongst the shards. Aleister took a sniff. It smelled putrid, whatever it was.

Mark came down the hall, another cigarette already fitted between his lips. Aleister kept roaming, out into the grisly living room now. The furniture was all of tightly coiled barbed wire. Blood still glistened on some of the thorns. Aleister reached down, touching one lightly. It pricked. A red bulb of blood welled up on his finger, a stark contrast compared to the alabaster flesh around it. Shaking his hand, Aleister flicked the blood off his finger, ignoring the fact that more returned to take the lost's place.

"What do you think is causing this?"

Shaking his head, Aleister made his way around the living room, looking over the rest of the furniture. The only creature in the apartment, aside from the eggs, seemed to be the one caged in the kitchen. It was slightly reassuring, comforting. Mark had more to fear from Aleister himself than that restrained beast. Aleister was unrestrained. He found his eyes straying to the police issue hand gun strapped under Mark's left arm, in a leather holster. It was an old fashioned holder, but sturdy all the same.

He couldn't just wait and hope the gun fell out at some point.

There had to be a plan for everything, and Aleister was preparing, even as he pretended to be observing the room around them, the situation at hand. Soon enough they would be passing into the next apartment over. Aleister had a feeling something was going to happen. His hunches were always right. Always. It was a gift, a curse, whatever one wanted to call it. At times he had flashes, visions, where he would see what was to come. Claudia always told him it was Alessa, reaching out to him through space.

It was a nice little idea, but it made him feel no closer to Alessa.

"How did you know Colefield?"

Aleister glanced over his shoulder, observing Mark for a moment. The detective was paranoid, perhaps because of a lack of sleep, as the circles under those dusty blue eyes suggested, or just by nature. He did not know, because he had never known Mark until now. Aleister did not trust him, his own personal brand of paranoia. "I didn't."

That seemed to suffice, as Mark stopped questioning, sitting on the floor again to finish his cigarette. Aleister could see his hand trembling. The police detective was not in a good place mentally, or physically either. Aleister, with a glance, understood that. What else could be told at a glance? More importantly, what were the keen, trained eyes of the detective picking up on?

His stomach churned, a tinge of pain. There was a slightly metallic taste in Aleister's mouth, bitter. Blood. Aleister walked calmly for the hallway, stepping over Mark's extended legs. He kept his steps fluid, shoulders back and square, even as he felt his abdominal muscles clench, vision dissolving into swirls and blots of color and darkness with pain. Aleister pushed the bathroom door open, trying not to walk in too fast. Mark was watching him.

The door finally clicked shut.

He leaned heavily back into it, trembling, bruises squirming beneath the surface of his skin. Aleister slid down the door, arms coiling tight around his waist. His breathing was shallow but quiet, an attempt to stifle it, in case Mark was listening as closely as he had been watching. Hiding this was going to be difficult. What if a bought struck when there was no cover to dodge into? No way to get away from prying eyes? Aleister did not want to think about, coiling tighter into a ball, squeezing his own dark eyes shut.

It was better if he didn't see what he was becoming.

The nausea came in a wave. Aleister crawled haphazardly across the broken and crumbling floor, to the decrepit toilet, streaked and caked with all sorts of refuse. The heat of the still burning egg-fire was not helping. Aleister heaved. There was nothing in his stomach luckily, throat soon feeling raw. With another heave, blood splattered the toilet seat, the bowl inside. It dribbled down his chin, thick and iron-y.

The next heave was full of blood, filling the empty bowl at the bottom. It was dark, almost too dark, just a slight crimson sheen visible in the light of the fire beside him and far beyond the grating below. The taste of it made him feel even more ill. Aleister swallowed it back, sagging onto the metal floor. He was sweating, a thin glossy layer over his pale skin. His skin, it was normal again, no longer looking like hell was trying to take it over.

It was passing, slowly but surely. Alessa… Aleister closed his eyes for a moment. She was a healer as much as she was a destroyer, even if she had not realized what she was doing. The anger at what Dahlia did only brought more tremors, Aleister swallowing again in hopes he would not continue vomiting. The blood… it was not healthy, most obviously. Internal bleeding? It would explain the sight of his skin now and then, but not why it came and went so sporadically.

Here in Silent Hill, nothing was ever so logical.

Aleister pushed himself off the hot, balmy floor, still shaking as he managed to stand. The eggs were still burning. He could hear their wails, even if it was slowly becoming lower and lower in volume. Soon enough they would be entirely dead. Or, perhaps, the place would keep them alive, in a constant cycle of torment, like so many other things in the town were kept.

Thinking about it only made his stomach churn. It made him wonder if he was just going to be another of those creatures. It made him wonder if they all already were.

Taking a deep breath to solidify his composure, Aleister wiped his mouth off on his hand, and then looked about for a way to clean off his hand. The faucet did not look functional, but he tried anyway. Water actually came through, clear if a touch cold. Aleister rinsed his hands off, flicking them dry. He was starting to feel better, slowly but surely.

"You alright?"

Aleister glanced over, closing the bathroom door behind him. He managed a weak nod. He was fine, for now at least. The future was still unknown to him. Just bits and pieces had been revealed. Leaning back against the door, Aleister let his gaze rove over into the bedroom, so pristine and untouched. It was a message. What the message said was an entirely different issue. Now was hardly the time to analyze it. "Are you ready to go through the door?"

Groaning, Mark finished his cigarette, pushing it through the grating before getting up. He walked with grudging determination for the door, testing the knob. From the sound, Aleister could tell it was locked. There was writing on the door. It had not been there before. The red letters were big, child-like. It was fitting for a child's room.

_TURN THE VALVES._

_TURN THE VALVES._

_TURN THE VALVES._

_TURN THE VALVES._

Aleister had not seen any valves at all in the apartment he had explored thus far. There were not even valves in expected places. He moved out of the bedroom, giving a quick look around the living room and kitchen. The door at the mouth of the hallway had the same thing written on it. Aleister tested the handle. It was open.

The inside of the room proved to have answers. There was another cage, at the very center of the room. It looked to be anchored to the ceiling, where the other was only anchored to the floor. Aleister turned on his flashlight, shining it beyond the creature which started to writhe. There were big pipes in the back of the room, each with a big red wheel valve. Turn the valves.

It did not sound too difficult.

Holding his flashlight between his teeth, Aleister moved into the room, skirting around the side. Mark was watching from the door. Being timid was a survival skill here. Aleister walked briskly through the pitch black room. There were dingy rolls of cloth covering the walls, like padding. The floors were tile, cracked and broken, barely discernable. It did not look like part of the same apartment, just as the bedroom looked like it was plucked from another reality.

Wasting no time, Aleister put his hands on the first valve. It was cold, slick. Aleister took his hands off. His palms, fingers, were red. He reached forward again, grabbing it, pulling. Grunting, Aleister leaned, putting all his weight into it. Muscles straining, taut, the valve finally began to turn. It was a grating noise, like there was rust inside.

Breathing harder, Aleister did the last turn of the first valve. There were still three more to go. Aleister turned off the flashlight, putting it in his pocket. He closed his eyes, working in the absolute dark. The creatures were attracted to light, so it was for the best. Aleister put his hands on the next valve, it's just as cold and wet as the prior. It was just as hard to move as the prior.

By the end of the third one, Aleister was sweating. There was a sheen to his skin from it. Aleister pushed his hair back, some of the red transferring to the black strands. Aleister did not care. He just wished he had some sort of tie to hold his hair back with, hold it up and off his neck. It was stifling in the room. Aleister pulled at the last valve, weakly at first. He took a few deep breaths, not as shallow and urgent as the ones former. Shaking out his strained arms, Aleister tried again, putting all his leverage into it.

A loud click resounded when the valve was turned to its fullest extent.

The sound of a door opening caused Aleister to spin. Mark was not at the entry of the valve room anymore. Lunging, Aleister broke into a run, polished dress shoes clinging easily to the uneven ground as he almost flew down the hall, into the bedroom. The door in the wall slammed shut. Aleister barreled into it, trying the handle. It came off, revealing smooth door with no way to get in and out. He slammed against it with his shoulder, still sore from the valves, wooden thing barely budging as though it was made of steel.

"Mark! What the hell are you doing!"

Aleister could hear struggling with the door from the other side, as though he was trying to get it back open with no success. He shoved against the door again, weaker than the last two times. It wasn't coming open. The way was sealed.

Whatever was in there, Mark would have to deal with it on his own. It was a good thing Aleister hadn't taken his gun yet.


	8. Ashes and Ghost

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill or any of the characters found within. Those are the hard work of the amazing people in Konami and Team Silent. I merely write strange fanfiction for it. This is my story, my made up story arc, and some of my own characters thrown into it.

**Warning:** This fic is rated M for a reason. Disturbing images, morbid themes, sexual insinuations, blood and gore, violence, language, alcohol, etc. Silent Hill is rated M, and so is this fic in trying to keep true to the series. It is about to get turned up a notch. THIS IS PUSHING THE LINES. I KNOW.

**Author's Note:** university has started back, and I now have next to no time to work on this. Sorry to anyone who is actually reading it. I hope to at least hit 30k before LDWriMo is over, so here we go. Chapter titles are still song titles, and I am waiting for someone to guess which game each goes to.

* * *

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter VIII: Ashes and Ghost**

The world was not the same as it had been when she opened her eyes. The red cushion her cheek was pressed against was worn, cracking. Her lithe fingers toyed with one of the larger rips, the stuffing sticking out of it. Her neck was sore, Sydney rubbing it for a moment before forcing herself to sit up. Her feet crunched on the café flooring. Her big eyed gaze went to her feet, where tiny shards of glass had been further granulated beneath them.

Half the windows were smashed out, where they had just been old and tarnished before, with a thin layer of grime. Now some of them were gone, and those left were so caked with refuse Sydney could not see out them at all. Fog swirled around her ankles, up to her knees in the café. Outside, the whole street was choked with it.

Sydney stood, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She slung her bag over her shoulder, giving another sweep around the main dining room. The place looked even more abandoned than it had when she arrived. Her stomach grumbled. Smiling, Sydney crossed the room, to the back counter and leaned over. There was a mini-fridge back there, with its interior light still on. Climbing up, she got onto the counter, hopping over. There was more broken glass on that side of things, too.

Opening the fridge, she peered in. There was some creamer, well past its expiration date. There was some moldy cheese badly bundled in cling-wrap. She pushed them aside, reaching into the back. The bottle was cold, wrapper slightly peeling but barely harmed. Pulling it out, Sydney looked at the expiration date. There were still a few months left. Still smiling, she popped open the top of the bottle, taking a whiff.

It smelled like good old V8, all right.

It was difficult to get down, but better than nothing, Sydney drinking deep. Choking down the last bit, she looked for a rubbish bin. There was none, trash littered everywhere. Sighing, Sydney put the glass bottle down.

A low growl filled the silence.

Sydney looked sharply up, eyes widening. It looked like a dog… perhaps from her worst of nightmares, but vaguely dog-like, none the less. It looked like it had been skin, muscle tissue laid bare, rippling and red. Half of that tissue was decaying, green and black and putrid, with maggots seething in the holes. Sydney took a timid step back, the thing growling again. It was crouched down on its haunches, ready to spring at any moment. She wouldn't be able to leap across the counter fast enough.

A flash caught her attention, from the corner of her eye. Sydney glanced over. It was a knife, a cleaver, still speckled with blood. Slowly, cautiously, she let her hand creep over, fingers coiling around the wooden handle. It was loose, but better than nothing. Swallowing, Sydney took another step back, sliding her feet rather than lifting them. It was still snarling. Holding the big, heavy cleaver out in front of her probably wasn't helping, either.

It lunged.

She swiped, a yelp filling the air. It sounded like a puppy being kicked. Sydney inched back another step, still holding the cleaver before her. Blood was dripping from its scuffed surface now. She was shaking, unable to stop herself. The dog, it had a big gash across its face. What might have been an eye was cut through, oozing dark, sickly smelling blood. Sydney had to fight the urge to gag.

It came running again, jumping. Both hands on the loose wooden handle, Sydney swiped downward, hitting it again. It scuttled back, laying down, staring at her. It wasn't dead, just wounded. Sydney didn't want to kill it. It looked too much like a dog. Putting the bloodied cleaver on the counter, Sydney hopped back over, grabbing the blade again once her feet were on solid ground. There was nothing else of use lying around that she could tell. Taking a deep breath, she started walking away, leaving the café as quietly and slowly as possible.

Soon enough, the door was clicking shut near silently behind her, and she was back on the streets.

The rain had stopped, but this fog made it cold, and hard to see. Sydney almost preferred the rain. Taking another deep breath to calm her still fluttering heart and shaking hands, Sydney started walking. She was bound to find a sign with a map eventually.

* * *

There was no door behind him. Mark groped along the wall, looking for seams that were not really there. A handle stood as the sole reminder of the bedroom he had just left behind, and it was fused straight into the drywall. The walls were grainy, like some sand had been thrown on the walls while they were damp. They were greenish, with a few streaks of grey here and there, some deep orange of rust flecked in as well. It was nothing like the place he had just left.

He was in a box, or an armoire, or some other piece of furniture, maybe even a closet. Mark turned on his flashlight. Muffled thuds were all that reached him in there, faint, distant sounding shouting that he could barely even make out. It was probably Aleister on the other side of that wall, trying to get through. There was nothing Mark could do to help. They were separated. Isolated.

The flashlight beam was painfully bright in his dim circumstances. The beam, perfectly white, cut through the air. That air was stale, stagnant, with some dust particles hanging in it. Mark shined the beam around, not at all surprised to see it looked just like the inside of the closet, only there were no shelves, no bars to hang things on. It was like an unfinished closet.

Tiny scratches had been dug into the bottom left corner of the closet, tally marks, like someone had been stuck in there, counting the days. There were no designations for days though. Whoever made it could have been counting anything.

Mark crouched down, running his fingers over the little marks. It looked like someone had been sawing back and forth in order to get even those shallow scratches. There was something on the ground by the marks, ghostly white. Mark touched it. It was a finger nail. A small finger nail, like a child's. Someone had locked a child in there.

Standing again, Mark flashed the beam around, finding nothing else but the edge of the closet door. Slowly, carefully, he pried it open. The little metal wheels at the top and bottom stuck to their tracks, grinding against one another with a lack of proper lubrication. Soon enough there was a small slit, Mark clicking off the flashlight and tucking it away.

The room beyond was even stranger than the closet.

There was cloth paneling on the walls, floor the ceiling, dingy and greenish, with streaks of brown and orange breaking the monotony, though barely. It reminded Mark of a metal asylum. He forced both of his hands through the thin crack, straining to pull a little further. His face was pressed to the crack, right eye peering out of it, wide and curious. He felt like a child.

It might have been a bedroom. Mark saw what resembled a bed in shape and size, against the far wall. It was grotesque. The mattress was sunken in through the middle, riddled with dark brown and red stains. The rest of the linens were yellow, old and neglected. Those stains glistened slightly in what little light the room had, as though whatever it was, it was fresh.

The door at the far end of the room opened.

Mark moved back quickly, to the side, hiding in the darkness provided by the closet. It was small, but would accommodate him, and perhaps two other men of his size, not that they could all hide quietly within. Mark pressed himself into the corner, holding his breath.

That side of the closet door was flung open, a big, hairy hand extending in. There was a smaller hand held it in. The little boy went into the closet, unawares he was not alone, turning back towards the door and blinking with wide, innocent eyes before that door slammed shut.

When the door in the bedroom closed, Mark finally spoke up. "Shhhh…" His first words were the icebreaker, trying to keep the little boy, probably four or five at most, silent, unafraid. It was difficult. Being locked in a closet had to be frightening. Mark's heart was pumping hard. "What's your name?"

The boy turned slowly. He was wearing a blue and white striped shirt with too big, khaki shorts. There were no shoes on his feet, but they were clean all the same, meaning the boy had a home, and in those apartments, no doubt. He gave a big grin. The sight of it broke Mark's heart.

"Marcus."

His breath caught in his lungs. Mark remembered having a shirt just like that. It was his favorite as a child. His room was decorated in the same colors. Mark crouched down, so he was at eye level with the child. Big blue eyes watched his every movement, already close observers. Blond hair sat slightly messy atop the kid's head, a bowl cut, not that anyone could tell from how unruly it was.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Mommy and Daddy had to go out of town. Mr. Alan is going to watch me." The kid was bright, and chipper. Luckily the kid did not have a short attention span either, keeping it at a five inch voice, like he learned in grade school. Marcus was missing one of his bottom front teeth, leaving a big black gap. The grin he wore was lopsided, carefree.

From photographs, Mark knew that wouldn't last for long.

It was strange, starting at himself, standing there at such a young age. The child sat down, rubbing the drywall beside him. There were no more scratches. Mark's brows furrowed. They had just been there a moment ago…

With a bang, the closet door flew opened again. That hairy hand reached in, Marcus taking it, being led out. He was all smiled that first time. The closet door closed. Mark drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them. He could hear everything, even with the barrier of that hard-stuck door. He could hear the cooing words of Alan Colefield, slightly younger and less gruff than Mark remembered from the jail cell. He could hear Marcus start crying. Screaming followed soon after that.

When the door opened again, and Marcus was led back in, his cheeks were red and puffy with tears. He laid down on his side, little hand rising up, scratching at the wall. Those tiny nails made one tally.

There had been seven when Mark first entered the closet.

After a while, Marcus finally sat up, though feebly, and tried to smile. It was still bright, innocent. Then the closet door opened again. Mark didn't know how many hours had passed. He watched in horror as that hand came in. Marcus didn't respond at first. With a sharp and demanding yell, Colefield reached down, grabbing Marcus by the wrist and dragging him out. Mark hadn't noticed it before, but those khaki shorts were covered in blood.

The closet door was too hard jammed for Mark to get it open on his own. He would have to wait. Worst of all, he would have to listen. He was too numb, too paralyzed, to move the next time, when Marcus was led back. The screaming… Mark held his gun like it was his life, trembling, unable to do anything.

If he could kill Colefield once, he could do it again.

That bang of the closet door opening was like a slap across the face. It rattled him. Made him jump. Marcus had been curled in a ball and crying since the last time he was brought back. He was sucking on his thumb, eyes squeezed hard shut. Mark saw that hand come in, demanding as always. There were already four marks on the closet wall.

Why had he waited so long?

With a scraping bang, the closet door closed again, Marcus still inside. The muffled sound of a phone ringing drifted to Mark's ears. It was a blessing. Leaning over, voice a hushed whisper, Mark made his plea. "Switch places with me."

The boy squirmed, coiling his fetal position tighter, eyes squeezing harder shut. He was still crying. Mark closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath.

"Please, Marcus. Come here."

Finally, the boy opened his eyes. There were dark, suspicious. No kid should have a look like that in his eyes. Mark swallowed back the hard, painful lump in his throat, coming up to kneel. Marcus wiggled his way to the ever closed side of the closet, Mark crawling to the one that would soon be opened again. He sat, facing that door, legs up to accommodate for them. Both hands had a firm grip on the pistol, the barrel aimed down for now.

There was talking coming from the other room, loud and jovial. It made Mark feel sick. How long had he been hiding in there now? Mark could not hear banging on the knobbed wall anymore. Would Aleister stop trying, or would he figure out another way to get to him? Aleister seemed to understand this hellish place, the way it worked, moved. It wouldn't surprise him if the black-haired local found another way to him, to Colefield's apartment.

With a loud thud, purposely exaggerated, Mark was sure, as he saw Marcus jolt, and start crying again. Mark listened to the heavy footsteps, eagerly coming back to the closet.

"Your parents are going to be coming home tomorrow, Marcus." The door banged open. Colefield was wearing a big, crooked grin, stubble spotting his pudgy jaw-line. That smile faded, thick brows pulling inward, deep creases rising between them. Those eyes were full of anger, not the mockery Mark remembered. A big, hair swathed hand plunged inward.

BANG!

Mark stood as Colefield staggered backwards, surprise all across his face. Dark red blood welled up like from a fountain, spilling over his dingy shirt. It was the same place Mark had shot him the last time.

BANG!

Colefield stumbled into the putrid bed, landing in a sitting position. His breathing was harder. There was a certain madness in his eyes.

BANG!

That disgusting grin came back onto his face.

BANG!

Four shots, four holes. Colefield slumped backwards onto the bed, sitting amidst his own flesh and blood. His entire shirt was slicked red. It was just like that day, at the holding cell. Mark had to fight not looking around for cameras. There were hot tears on his cheeks. With shaking hands, Mark lowered the gun, backing slowly into the closet.

There was no one there.

Frantically, Mark turned around. The room was empty. Colefield was not on the bed anymore. Mark looked with wide, horrified eyes to the ground, short cut carpet, matted and caked with who knew, who would want to know, what. There were thick drag marks, leading from the bed, out into the main apartment.

Mark had never known.

Unable to stop himself, he slid down the closet door, knees buckling. He thudded as he hit the ground, pistol barely hanging by the trigger guard on his numb hand. It felt more like a nightmare than reality, but it also felt so real. He could smell the putrid stench of the apartment around him. He could see clearly the strange padded walls, streaked with grime. He could touch the rough carpet he sat upon, the stinging in his eyes.

This was real.

This was real.

Where was Helen?

* * *

The door was not coming open. Aleister checked the valve room, finding those red wheels all in their proper positions, the creature still hanging in the center of the room like a column. His hands were stained red. When Aleister went back into the bedroom, it had started to make a transformation of its own. There was neglect starting the crust over the walls, and that door was fused into that back wall, no seams showing, only a few indents and a handle hinting it had even been there.

Writing covered all of the walls. It was a childlike scrawl, in red, big letters covering everything. Aleister could barely read it.

_Mr. Alan is a really bad man. Mr. Alan is a really bad man._

It was repeated across all of the surfaces, like a chant or mantra. Mr. Alan? Alan Colefield? Aleister touched one of the letters. It was still wet. His hands were still wet, come to think of it. Aleister went into the bathroom, turning on the faucet. There was no point in banging on the wall more. It was not going to open. Mark was stuck in there, and Aleister would just have to wait.

Thankfully the fire in the tub had finally died down.

* * *

_He smiled. It tugged slowly at the corners of his thin lips, drawing them up ever so slightly. It was nice to see him smile. She would have returned the gesture, but it felt like her face was glued into place, unwilling to move. Her entire body felt heavy. The bed beneath her was hard, unwelcoming, and a single sheet was dangled over her body._

_There were bandages on her. She could not remember what. It was all too much of a haze, like fog._

_Gently, his slender fingers coiled around her hand, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. He was pale, face like the moon in hue. Those dark green eyes were so familiar, she only wished she could place a name to it. It was too much work. Now was not the time._

_She let her big eyes drift back shut with sleep._

Heather woke up with a pounding headache, groaning, rolling onto her side and putting the pillow over her head. The bed gave with her movements, soft, like a pillow in and of itself. There was a big comforter up over her, keeping her in a pleasant cocoon of warmth. Grumbling more, Heather tried squeezing her eyes tighter shut, hugging the pillow tighter to her head.

The alarm clock started buzzing.

"Uhg." Heather launched the pillow, its hitting the alarm clock head on. It didn't stop buzzing. Hitting her throbbing head against the mattress one time, Heather finally dragged herself out of the cocoon, slamming on the snooze button. Just a few more minutes, that's all she asked.

"Stanly…" The name came out of her lips before she could stop it, a puzzled look bunching up her face. "Aleister Stanly."

"Heather, did you say something?"

Quickly she slipped into her school clothes, quickly running a brush through her hair and leaving the bleach-blond locks a little messy still. Putting a smile on her lips, she came out into the living room, breathing deep the aroma of roasting coffee. That was a good smell to wake up to. She stretched, yawning. The headache was weaker now, but still there, irritating.

"Do you know someone named Aleister Stanly?" Heather rubbed her eyes, sleep still in her voice. Walking groggily over, she poured herself a cup of the dark coffee, adding in some milk and sugar. Stirring them in, she took a sip, cringing at how hot it was. It burned her tongue. Swallowing, Heather took another searing sip. It was a good, quick way to wake up, that was for sure.

Pursing his lips up like he was thinking deep, Harry shook his head, shrugging. "Not that I remember. Why?"

"Oh, no reason." Heather smiled, continuing to sip at her coffee. Some toast popped up from the toaster, a light brown, almost to the point of burning. That was how her father liked his toast. He scrapped some jam on the slices, quickly biting into a piece as he held the paper up with his other hand, reading the headlines aloud. Heather barely paid attention.

"Detective Marcus Dennings Falls From Grace. New Grounds for Criminal Appeals." Harry tilted his head to the side, as though trying to remember. "I met him once. A really nice guy, head on straight. I feel bad for the guy. It says here someone murdered his wife… he later shot the man. Good God. That should be a justifiable homicide if you ask me."

"He's the guy that saved my teacher, Miss James. She was riding her bike home from school late one night, and a guy tried to mug her. Detective Dennings just happened to be down the street and stopped her from getting hurt, then took the guy in." Heather put down her cup of coffee, edging around the tiny kitchenette to look at the article. There was a picture of him next to the article, as upright and noble looking as anyone Heather had ever seen. She felt bad for him.

"Down here at the bottom, it says he's missing, has been for a few days now. They suspect he fled for…" Harry's face scrunched up for a moment, eyes darkening. Heather couldn't miss it. Harry folded the paper quickly, tucking it under his arm. "Don't you have classes to be getting too?"

"Yeah, dad. You have to drive me."

"Oh…" Harry smiled weakly, fakely, slamming back the rest of his coffee like a shot before putting the cup in the sink for later washing. Heather knew she would have to do it that night. She poured out the last of hers. There was over half left, and she didn't have time to drink it. She didn't want to be late for Miss James' class. The woman was too nice to disrespect like that. Sometimes, Heather felt like she actually knew her from somewhere… it was so odd. Like the name, Aleister Stanly, it just popped into her head, along with a headache.

Grabbing her bag, she slung it over her shoulder, following Harry out to his beat up SUV. It was a quick drive to the school, Heather getting out with a cheery smile. She waved goodbye as she walked.

There were police officers outside of her classroom.

"What's going on?"

"Were you in a Miss Sydney James' class?"

"Yes." Heather lowered her bag off her shoulder, letting it sink to the floor. They were all staring at her with pity. Heather glanced in the little glass window on the door. There were officers in there too, talking to the students. It looked like they were getting statements.

"Do you know anything about her whereabouts?"

"Whereabouts?" Heather looked from one officer to another, searching for an answer which did not come. None of them were speaking yet. "Did something happen to her?"

One of the officers in the back, in a suit rather than blue, nodded. He was a detective. Heather recognized his photograph. He was the partner of Marcus Dennings, Rick, or something like that. They had both worked for homicide department, done a lot of good for the city. Heather felt safer, at least.

"She went missing this weekend. Her roommate has not been able to reach her cell, and her family has no idea where she went."

It was like playing connect the dots. First their neighbor down the way, Alan Colefield, was shot and killed, and then Marcus Dennings went missing after killing him, and now Sydney James, who had been saved by Detective Dennings once, was missing too. It was all too strange.

Heather had the sickening feeling that she was next on that chain.

* * *

The nightmare was not ending. Mark let his tear reddened eyes sweep the room, partially glazed over by how numb he was, partially because he had just killed a man, again. Again. That was what made him pause. It wasn't his place to kill people. It just… it just happened. That was hardly an excuse. Was he going crazy? Mark shoved back his blond hair. It was tangled, messy, laden with grease.

The room was still like a padded cell.

Mark reached over, poking the nearest wall with the end of his pistol's barrel. The wall gave. It was a lot like a padded cell. However, it smelled like there was too much moisture behind that thin veil of cloth, eating at the padding beneath. Mark almost gagged at the reek of mold as it hit him like a hard right hook in the face.

Covering his mouth, Mark slid across the floor a little ways, until he could safely take his hand off his mouth and use both palms to steady himself for standing. It was a shaky endeavor. The streaks on the floor… Mark traced them with his eyes, watching how they still glistened. There was so much blood he could smell it.

Like his bedroom, the apartment, Helen.

Gagging, Mark bit it back, hurrying along the crimson trail, to that door.

It led to the living room. The streak continued, winding like a snake, leading to an armchair. It was big, overstuffed, with tattered cloth. Years ago, the thing might have been nice. Mark wasn't sure. He raised his gun, walking slowly, with steps that moved like butter from training. They taught them this stuff in the police academy, though most people forgot it as soon as the exams were over. Mark wasn't one of those. He had been a good cop, once upon a time.

There was a body on the armchair.

It shivered, lurching to its feet. Mark took a step back. The blood was from it, all from it, the front of its checkered button-up stained a dark red, almost black. Its eyes were wide and delirium as it turned towards him. There was a mist of blood on that face, and a crooked grin.

It was Alan Colefield.

"Helen, look, it's Marcus, come to play." His voice grated, gurgling, cracking and popping. There was fluid in his lungs, probably blood. Mark could even hear it from that distance of ten feet. He also heard a delighted giggle, gaze trailing down, behind Colefield a few feet.

A little girl stood there, with a shining smile and hair like the sun. She wore a little blue dress, with white puffed sleeves, and a matching white headband, a bow sitting on top of it.

"Her parents went on a vacation this weekend." That crooked grin continued, the man's gruff voice ending Mark's momentary staring.

That was Helen? As a child? She had fallen prey to Colefield too?

Mark let the gun drop to the floor.

Something hit his head.

Everything went black.


	9. Overdose Delusion

**Disclaimer:** do not own Silent Hill or the characters found therein. Those are the work of Konami and Team Silent, as well as Akira Yamaoka. I own all original characters in this fiction, this plot arc, and this writing. Any scenes from the Silent Hill games are adapted to writing by me, but still the work of Komani, etc etc.

**Warning:** M for a reason. Gore, violence, dark themes, morbidity, blood, religiously sensitive subjects, etc.

**Author's Note:** I only got halfway through this chapter before LDWriMo ended, sadly, so I finished with 31k words, which was a silver medal. It is 10k words more than I managed for EDWriMo last year, which is good, I guess. I had just hoped to get to 50k. Next time?

* * *

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter IX: Overdose Delusion**

Aleister moved away from the barred window, turning in time to watch the transformation taking over the room. Whole chunks of material melted down from the ceiling, plummeting to adhere to the grating, the metamorphosis leaving plain tiled floor, grey and square. The metal, rusted walls were covered in wallpaper, with white and blue patterns of vines and flowers, a left-over from the suburbia of the seventies. The barbed wire furniture regained its upholstery.

Walking slowly, steadily across the shifting floor, Aleister made his way into the living room, spotting the blood pooling around the chairs, just like there had been blood on the barbs or that wire. Aleister looked down at his hands. How many times had he washed them now? The red was finally gone, fading with the nightmare.

It almost looked like a normal apartment, if slightly neglected.

The kitchen was full of normal appliances, a trail of blood drippings leading to the fridge, where the creature had been. Aleister was almost timid to check. He reached out, flinging the door open. There was a body inside, of an aging woman. She was wrapped tightly in barbed wire, eyes bulging, mouth open in a silent scream. Aleister closed the fridge again. She was most definitely dead.

Crossing into the hall, Aleister opened the valve room door. A man hung by a noose in the center of it, that noose of barbed wire. His limps were bound in the same way as the woman's, though there was no scream on his mouth, his eyes shut. The valves remained at the back of the room, a washer and dryer in front of them. It was humoring, almost, if that swinging dead body had not been in between him and the appliances.

Closing that door softly, as though he would disturb the man's eternal sleep, Aleister went into the bedroom. It looked like a little boy's bedroom. The writing on the walls was still there, though it was dried, looked more like spray paint than blood now. The iron tinge to the air was gone as well.

Shaking his head, he moved to the armoire. There were no scrape marks by it, and when he tried pushing it, it would not budge. Shining his flashlight in the gap between furniture and wall, he saw no door. That had been part of the nightmare.

Walking quickly, with long, agile strides, Aleister went out the front door. The hallway was normal, plaster peeling off the walls here and there. Most of the lights were busted out, glass on the floor beneath, but there were a few lights on, flickering. There was power in the building, which was somewhat reassuring, though Aleister was not sure why. He looked down the hall. Where the wall with the massive fan had been was a hallway, though there were long, thick bars further down. However, the bars did not come until right after the door to Alan Colefield's apartment.

Aleister quickly went for it.

The apartment was silent.

Taking a hesitant step in to the pitch black room, he clicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting through a cluttered, mostly destroyed living room. It looked like a tornado had whipped through there and left all of the refuse behind. His feet crunched as he walked over glass.

A groan sounded from the back of the room.

Breaking into a jog, Aleister was kneeling back behind the main, shredded couch in a few seconds. Mark was on his stomach, cheek on the floor. His eyes were only half open, rimmed with red. Aleister reached for his neck, checking the pulse. It was slow, and weak, but still there.

The detective's gun was lying a foot away.

Mark's eyes finally slid the rest of the way open, and he rolled on his back, staring up at the shadow engulfed ceiling as though he could see it. The detective did not seem to have any wounds, except for a missing fingernail, from which oozed blood. It was mostly scabbed over, nothing to worry over.

They needed to start moving again.

"Can you stand?"

Letting out an annoyed sound, Mark crawled to his feet, wavering slightly before leaning heavily on the near wall. Aleister kept his eyes on the gun. Though his flashlight beam was not directly on it, on purpose, he could see the reflection on the metal.

It felt like now or never.

Letting out a yawn of all things, Mark bent, picking up the pistol and holstering it. That chance had come and gone.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

At first there was no answer, Mark flicking on his own flashlight, shining it around. He opened the door beside him, flashing the beam into that room. It was the main bedroom, and from its positioning, Aleister assumed that was the room Mark had first emerged into. In fact, that closet was in perfect place. He wondered what had happened in there.

There was a bloody and mangled body on the bed. Mark quickly closed the door, pursing his lips. Aleister decided not to tell him about the bodies in the apartment next door. From the ledger downstairs, Aleister had read that it was the apartment of a Mr. and Mrs. Dennings, meaning Mark's parents. They were both dead. It was the wrong time to break the news. There might never be a right time.

"I still don't know why Colefield was killing people from Silent Hill."

"There was more than just your wife?" Aleister turned, flicking off his flashlight. There was no need to use it in this room. It was a safe place, for now at least. Aleister had a feeling that the hallways would not be anymore, or anywhere for that matter. From the look on Mark's face, Aleister knew the detective had faced something in those rooms, something terrifying, revealing. There would be more waiting for him.

Mark nodded. "My partner and I were assigned to the case. The only thing the victims had in common was being from Silent Hill. I never knew my wife was from here, until now…" Mark shook his head, eyes closing. Aleister could faintly see him rubbing his temples, massaging away a headache. "I thought that Colefield had killed Helen to get to me, but according to him, in the holding cell, she lived here, and I was next."

"A great number of people have moved away from Silent Hill in the last ten, fifteen years." Aleister turned, picking his way through the wreckage for the front door. "Colefield just moved two years ago."

"When did it become like… _this_?"

Aleister knew what he meant. He paused, hand on the knob. "It depends on who you ask." Swallowing harshly, Aleister thought back. It did depend on who was asked. It had not been that bad until Alessa was removed entirely. Yes, the residents had lived in fear before then, but… Aleister had his answer. "Seventeen years ago is when the whole city became like this. Now and then tourists still came to the north side of the lake without incident, but it spread. Some people think it started sooner."

"You have been living here this whole time?"

Nodding, Aleister opened the door. The lights were still buzzing, flickering. He turned his head left, looking down the way they had come. It was a mundane hallway, nothing of note out in it. He looked right. Behind the bars was a form, tall, much taller than Aleister despite his height, and it was broad, muscular. Aleister let his green gaze trail up, to the partially polished, partially corroded pyramid over its head. The beast stood there, unmoving, no weapon in its hands. Those hands were at its sides, arms tense but fingers slack.

"Wait in here." Aleister quickly shut the apartment door, coming to stand before the bars. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his fingers around them. The metal was cold. The next exhalation he made left a thin trail of white across the air. Aleister moved closer, face just millimeters from the old, tarnished iron. The pyramid headed beast did not move, standing its ground. Aleister could see the rise and fall of strong breaths that chiseled chest made.

Without its massive knife, much like an oversized cleaver, the beast was not as frightening. Aleister stared into its face, where the face should be, wondering what it thought, if it thought. There was always a chance that this creature had once been a resident, transformed by the mutation of Silent Hill itself. Only a few people, mostly law enforcement, would be fitting for the role. The local station had been closed for years, the closest one in Brahms. Those people had gotten out long before the true transformations took place.

Taking a deep breath, holding it, Aleister reached through the bars. The tips of his fingers brushed across the smooth, glass-like surface of the pyramid, trailing down it, to a corroded section, which was bumpy, like sand and other grit had been glued to it. Aleister let his hand drop. He remained still for a few more moments, breaths raspy beneath that mask.

Slowly, the beast lifted its arm, veins bulging over thinly veiled muscles. The skin almost looked transparent, papery. Aleister could see the blood pumping through that barely there cover. It pointed, towards Colefield's apartment. That gesture almost felt like an inquiry.

Shaking his head, Aleister finally spoke, in a whisper. "I need him."

The pyramid moved, as though nodding. The hand lowered in a mechanical, doll-like way, and it turned walking unsteadily off into the darkness. Aleister did not see where it went, as the lights went out where the beast walked. It was obeying him. That thought sent a shiver up his spine, crawling beneath his skin. _They_ were listening to him.

The door opened, almost hitting Aleister in the back. He let go of the bars, spinning. It was just Mark. There was confusion in his eyes. Aleister did not feel the need to answer his questions.

"Is there anything else you needed here in the apartments?"

Mark looked down that left side of the hall, through the bars, at that closest door. There was no way to get there, at least not now, not from this side. It would have to wait, and Mark seemed to know that. He ran a hand back through his oily hair. The dark shadows beneath his blue eyes were just as bad as before.

"You look like you haven't slept or showered in weeks." Aleister tucked a loose strand of his own, silken black hair behind a pale ear. That wound, the missing fingernail, would have to be cleaned and dealt with as well, before it could get infected. "Follow me."

Turning sharply, Aleister went straight down the hall, a path which ran like an L from the hall they had been in. The doors were all plain, similar, warped from condensation. Aleister paused, taking another turn. It had been a long time since he had ventured through these halls, gone to the apartment he had at one time paid for. Now that everyone was either dead or a monster, there was no rent. There were no jobs, either, so it was for the best. Whenever Aleister left the hospital, he needed a place to sleep, after all.

At the end of the hallway was a lone, untouched door. The white paint on it was crisp, making it look new. In brown, there was a symbol painted around the peephole. It was a seal, mainly composed of a triangle. The same symbol was tattooed on Aleister's upper arms, one for each. It helped keep the creatures at bay, for the most part. According to Claudia, his ability to keep them away, repel them even, was born into him, or a gift from Alessa. She could never truly decide.

Pulling out his key, Aleister unlocked the door, opening it.

The apartment looked like it belonged somewhere other than were it was. There was a bookshelf stretching across one whole wall in the living room, with a low, minimal couch across from it. A glass table sat between them. The kitchenette was spotless, rarely used. There was some food in the fridge, though Aleister made no move for it. No dust touched anything, surprisingly. Aleister had expected it to be covered in cobwebs by now.

"The shower is in there." Aleister motioned with one hand, going straight over to the bookshelf.

There was work he could do while waiting for Mark to be done.

* * *

There was an old church, with no one parked around it, no lights on inside. Sydney paused, looking up at it. It was an intimidating structure. She had a feeling she did not want to go there, but was drawn in all the same. Shaking her head quickly to clear the sensation, Sydney broke into a run, continuing down the street.

Big brick walls rose up, with a fancy gate. Sydney paused. A chill rose goosebumps on her arms, and she hugged them together, rubbing the bright yellow of her sweater in hopes of getting more heat. The sign was so covered in vegetation that she could not see the words on it. A winding cobblestone path led down the way.

It was like something was beckoning her down that way, as well. This tug was stronger, and Sydney turned, squeezing through the thin gap at the gates. The cobble path was long, wide, winding. There were no weeds sticking up between the stones, short trimmed grass around, and some manicured trees. This place did not look abandoned. Sydney quickened her pace. There were some lights on in the massive building that peeled forth from the fog. It looked almost like a Victorian era brick mansion, just more daunting.

There was no ringer. The front door was slightly ajar. She slipped in, swallowing back her apprehension as she saw the neglected interior. The floor tiles were cracked here and there, but not slippery or precarious like the café had been. A single bulb swung from the high ceiling, creaking, flickering and flashing. It only provided a thin, yellow light. Sydney rubbed her arms again, continuing to walk.

A locker stood in the lobby, with the bold sign of: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. The letters were faded, the lock broken. Sydney opened it. There were giant battery units with sunflower sized flashlight heads attached, and tools, gloves, blankets, the like. There was also a phone inside. Sydney lifted it. The dial tone was dead. Sighing, she hung it back up, grabbing one of the light-battery units. It provided a massive beam. Sydney could see the dust drifting down through the air in that beam.

Turning it off, she stuffed it in her bag, sifting through the other supplies. There was a set of keys, something useful as well, Sydney stashing them. Sydney lifted one end of a walkie-talkie set, getting no response from wherever the other end might be.

Could there be others in this place? It seemed so forgotten, Sydney could not imagine it. What was this place, anyway? A massive map was hung on the wall. She snapped a picture of it on her cell phone, scrolling over the details. Cedar Grove Sanitarium. Oh, lovely.

On any normal day, a nuthouse was the last place she would want to be. This was no normal day. For some reason, she felt drawn to it, to a specific direction. The door was locked at the edge of the big room, Sydney testing a few keys before one clicked, opening it. There were more neglected hallways on the other side.

Footsteps. There were footsteps!

Holding her bag tight, Sydney sprinted, running around the corner. She skidded to a stop on the crushed and broken tiles, stumbling a little before righting her balance. It was a man, somewhat tall, though not intimidatingly so. There were grey streaks in his brown hair, and it looked like he had not shaved in a day or two. The man readjusted his glasses, surprise all over his face. He almost looked like a shrink, with his suit pants, vest, and dress shirt. However, they were more old professor colors than doctor's. Or at least she thought so.

"You aren't from around here, are you?"

He did not sound scary. In fact, his tone was friendly, a slight smile quirking up on his lips. Sydney gave him one more look over, not recognizing him. How old would he have been when she lived there? "Yes, but no… sorta?"

A laugh came off his lips, man shaking his head and pressing his glasses back up on his nose. They were constantly sliding down. "You talk in more riddles than Claudia."

"Claudia? Who's she?"

"You're definitely not from around here."

"Who are you?" The lights were flickering overhead, buzzing in and out. Static crackled lowly from her cell phone, from the dead walkie-talkie in her bag. It felt like a warning. "I'm Sydney."

"Vincent." He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned to look down the hall. "You're one of the ones Aleister called here."

That name! Sydney took a step forward, blinking. This man knew Aleister? "He was the one who pushed Alessa's wheelchair. They were always together."

Vincent turned sharply back, brows furrowing in. It was not about Aleister, that much Sydney knew. It was the name Alessa that made him turn. "You knew them?"

"When I was at school, Midwich, she would come visit us sometimes. And then the sirens started, and I had to leave."

"Oh. So you're one of the lucky ones." Vincent sighed, pulling a hand out of his pocket to push the wayward glasses up again. "I'll be seeing you around more, I think. Until then." Vincent gave a short wave, walking through a door at the end of the hall and vanishing. Sydney just stared. That was… abrupt. But they would probably run into one another again, as he said. Sydney had faith in that.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

The normal uneven click of broken heels and unsteady legs was disrupted by slow, firm steps. Those steps were unafraid, relaxed even. Anna tilted her head to the side, arms wrapped tightly around her in her straight jacket. It hadn't been an uncomfortable position for a long time. In solitary confinement, there was no way to track the days, weeks, years. She had no idea how long she had been here, but she knew this was the first time in positively ages that she had heard something other than a wobbly nurse.

Anna stared at the little window outside her cell. There was nothing. With a small, tiny scraping noise, something was pushed in from under the door. Using the wall to help, Anna pushed her way upwards, feet shoving closer and closer to the wall until she was standing, if unsteadily. How long had she been sitting? Anna did not waste her time thinking on it. She walked along the wall to the door, falling to her knees once she got there. That felt like miles.

It was a card, all in washed out sepia tones, too ornate and big to be playing cards. She moved her face a little closer. Using her mouth, she managed to flip it over, to the worn off back. There was writing in a jagged, quick script, a little too ornate to be considered sloppy. Leaning as close as she could without blocking the faint light, Anna read it.

There were notes about who the card could possibly be, about how they are the prophet to bring vision of Alessa to their church and return Silent Hill to Paradise. It was religious, but with a precise sort of wording that verged on scientific. Anna listened to the footsteps moving away, just as leisurely as they had approached. Soon the person was gone, and she was left with this card.

Flipping it again, she stared at the front. There were two faces melted together, and a jumble of letters down below it. The left half of the face was her own, though from a time when she had longer hair, and her freckles were more pronounced from having some sunlight. When she was put in Cedar Grove, she no longer had access to the sun, and lost what minute tan she had. The other half of the face was very similar to her own. They could have been twins.

The letters were simple enough for her to figure out. There were other letters around the ones that formed Anna Dyana. Those other letters spelled out a name as well, no reorganization required. Sydney James. Anna smiled. She knew no Sydney James, but assumed it was the other face, like a slightly distorted mirror of her own.

Picking up the card in her teeth once more, Anna lurched off the floor, staggering back to her corner, away from the maggots. The maggots were turning into flies now, buzzing around the room, landing on her every so often. Some of the maggots were dying, rotting, providing new food and breeding grounds for the flies. The cycle would continue on forever it seemed, even though the rotted food was gone now. Anna just had to wait and watch and wait some more.

Slumping in her corner, she held the card up between her knees, staring into it as the next nurse patrol shambled by.


	10. Promise

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill or any of the characters found within. Konami and Team Silent and Akira Yamaoka do. Love them. They are amazing. Silent Hill owns me. I wrote this fanfic and story arc. There are some original characters in here, but no Mary Sues.

**Warning:** blood, gore, violence, disturbing themes, language, morbidity, religiously sensitive subjects, etc, etc. Anything that could be warned on the back of a Silent Hill game and more. This is M for a reason.

**Author's Note:** Silent Hill V: Homecoming is coming out at the end of this month. I cannot wait to play it. It looks amazing. Go check out some trailers and gameplay now. Please? The first song by Mary Elizabeth McGlynn released for SH5 has been a big inspiration for me, and fits this fic so effing well its amazing. Seriously people, check it all out.

* * *

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter X: Promise**

The water battered him in sheets, warm blanket of liquid wrapping around him and holding him in the welcoming fluff of steam. Mark let his eyes close, head sliding back as he massaged the water through his hair, letting it tumble across his face. It felt like whole layers were peeling off him, the scalding hot treatment lifting off all the pain, the suffering, the torment. He was left with clean, pure skin, untouched, untainted if slightly red from the intensity of this ritual.

Despite the hell the rest of Silent Hill was caught in, the apartment remained untouched, a little pocket of sanity in all this madness. The bathroom was immaculately clean, toilet shining and white, linoleum tiles gleaming, shampoo and conditioner and body soap in a tidy row. Each stood in their own, frosted glass bottles, labeled by hand. Mark did not know what exactly was in each one, what the scent was, but it smelled good… and mysterious in a way.

Much like Aleister himself, the soaps were an enigma.

Mark took his time washing, lathering his hair up to a white afro of foam, and then rinsing. More layers came off, this time guilt and loathing. Letting the conditioner sit, Mark scrubbed of the grime and ash from his body, watching the shame and trepidation swirl down the drain. The calm having soaked into his hair, he removed the excess, feeling shiny and new again when he finally flicked off the water.

Steam still hovered around him like fog, Mark shivering as he opened the glass door of the shower, stepping out into the cool bathroom. There were clean towels folded and stacked in the cabinet, Mark fishing one out and drying off. He felt more awake than he had since his world came crashing down. A few days ago? A week? Mark was not sure. It all felt like one nightmare, flowing from terrifying scene to terrifying scene.

If only he could wake up, with Helen beside him in bed, and smell her hair.

As much as Mark hated it, he put his dirty clothes back on. They were all he had. Mark hadn't the time to pack before evading his fellow officers to get to Silent Hill. He buttoned his lightly blood misted shirt, smoothing it out as though that helped. He did not bother to tuck in the tails before zipping his pants and buttoning them. A tucked shirt was worthless in this place. Lastly he slung on his sturdy, leather holster, just taking note of the gun's presence, not checking it.

Slowly, reluctantly, Mark opened the bathroom door.

It was still a pristine, logical world outside that door. A lamp was glowing with a soft, white light on the table before the couch, Aleister crouched over it and a book laid out under that illumination. Mark approached slowly. The couch was low, without much of a back on it. The thing hardly looked comfortable, or used for that matter.

That was when Mark noticed the gun.

It was tucked into the back of Aleister's pants, handle sticking up and to the left, for someone who was left-handed to quickly grab. Mark lifted his own hands, feeling the gun secure and cold beneath his left arm. A shaky sigh of relief, near silent, filtered through his lips. It was a wonder Mark had not noticed Aleister's gun before, considering it suck up a little onto that white dress shirt, a stark contrast.

As nervous as it made him, Mark tried hiding it, edging around the couch before sitting down. He leaned over, looking at the book.

The text looked old, really old, the pages yellowed, some brown in spots even, the ink faded. It looked like most of it had been hand written, all of it, actually, the diagrams drawn by hand. Mark couldn't understand it, though. It was talking about God being born again and creating Paradise and all of these things that did not sound like the kind of church Mark went to back in the city. Religion was different here. Mark wondered if that had been influenced by the nightmare Silent Hill was caught in.

Aleister was so engrossed in his reading that he didn't even seem to notice Mark's joining him; either that, or he didn't call. Mark took this time to look up, letting his gaze scrape over the long bookshelf. It spanned from floor to ceiling, every space crammed with a book. It was like a personal library in there. With how untouched, unlived in everything seemed, Mark never would have expected such an expansive library. It must not have been used often. Mark thought it a waste.

Standing, Mark made his ways to the rows and rows of old, musty books. It even smelled like an ancient library in there, not that Mark had been to many to know. The university library was the oldest one he had been in, and it had the same smell. Mark touched the binding of one. The title was indented into the leather, and then the letters were painted over to make them pop a bit more. It worked. Mark did not recognize any of the names. Wait, there was one. Dante's Inferno.

Leaving the books alone, Mark walked for the window, pulling up the blinds. It was near twilight out there, caught somewhere between night and day. Fog sat heavy over the front courtyard of the apartments, Mark barely able to make out the large iron gates keeping them secluded from the main street. It was a wonder that he could see anything at all.

"Did you go to school here?"

Mark turned. Aleister closed his book, dark eyes trained on the detective. It felt like a loaded question. "Yeah." He closed the blinds, apartment feeling darker afterwards though still untouched by the taint. "I graduated high school here." That was over ten years ago. He could barely remember it, remember Silent Hill, both veiled in the same fog which covered the town now.

"Do you remember… Alessa?"

That name…

_Sun filtered down into the central courtyard, reflecting off the leaves, glittering on the massive tower of the clock. He laughed, running a wide circle around it, spinning before falling on one of the grassy patches. It was recess, beloved recess. The other children were playing, having fun. All but one. Mark looked up, seeing him against the far wall, legs drawn up. His eyes were red and puffy, short black hair messy._

_Getting up, Mark walked over, sitting next to him. "What's wrong, Stanly?"_

_The boy's lip wobbled, but he didn't say anything. Normally Stanly was with Alessa; they were inseparable. She was not as school today. The teachers seemed nervous. Was it about the fire? Mark had seen something about a fire on the news._

_Bells chimed the end of recess, and the class lined up, Sister Trevelli taking the roll. Mark waved his hand and exclaimed "here!" after his name was called. After "Alessa Gillespie" there was silence, and Stanly flinched. Sister Trevelli finally got down the alphabet, calling "Aleister Stanly", and he just stood there, staring at his feet._

"We went to school together." Mark took the time to actually study Aleister now. He had changed a lot. His rounded face was not lean and defined, though just as pale as it had been. His short cropped hair now brushed his shoulders. Those green eyes were just as dark. Ever since that day Alessa stopped coming, Aleister started fading away, vanishing entirely at some point. Mark hadn't even thought about it.

"You asked me when all of _this_ started." Aleister was returning the book to the shelf. He had gotten really tall and strong over the years, though lean. Mark had noticed that part while Aleister dealt with the valves. "The fire at the Gillespie house was the very beginning, for me at least."

Mark nodded. He did not understand, but he nodded.

"A man came here almost seventeen years ago. He took Alessa with him." Aleister hovered by the bookshelf, slender fingers still on the book he just replaced. There was a distant look in those green eyes. It was almost wistful. "After that, all hell broke loose."

"I don't remember it being that bad." Not anything like this, at least. Mark traced his finger across the window sill; there was not even dust. He had a feeling that Alessa had something to do with this: the change in Silent Hill, the untouched apartment, everything. What and how, Mark had no clue, but his hunches were usually right. This couldn't be an exception.

Aleister shook his head, long strides carrying him to a door jutting out from the room other than that of the bathroom. He paused, only for a moment, speaking into the door rather than glancing back, "There aren't many safe places left in town. I suggest you sleep now while you can." With that he vanished through the door, locking it behind him.

There was nothing to do but settle down on the couch and finally sleep.

* * *

The halls were changing as she walked. The wan lights above gave a final shudder, giving out, plunging the asylum halls into blackness. Sydney stopped, broken tiles crunching under her shoes. Twisting, she fished through her bag, pulling out the massive bulk of the flashlight and turning it on. The wide beam illuminated only a small path, showing brown tiles where grey had been moments ago. She turned the beam, raking it over wallpaper which looked like it was crying, streaks of browns and oranges running down it. Shifting the beam upward, she watched as the lights were coiled around by chain and rusted barbed wire.

She had to get out of here.

Now.

Turning, she dashed back down the hall, flashlight beam bouncing, catching dark red seeping like blood from outlets, fronts of lockers peeling away to corroded wire mesh. She slammed into the far double doors. They rattled, but did not budge. Sydney hit them again. Nothing. The handle was covered in metal thorns, Sydney biting her lip as she closed her hand on it, pulling, pushing. The doors were locked. She was trapped.

There was only one way to go, and that was further in.

Was this what her mother had been talking about by weird?

This was beyond weird.

Sydney backed away from the door, wiping her bloody hand off on her jeans. The hall was completely different now, a hellish parallel to the abandonment of moments ago. Her first thought was to find somewhere safe, to hide.

Click… drag… click… drag…

Static crackled on her phone, faint, but noticeable in the oppressive silence. Rounding the corner, the buzz and whir of static from her phone intensified. She lifted the flashlight.

The beam hit a faded white dress, buttons yellowed, sweat and grime clinging to the fabric. She lowered the light some. One heel was broken, that foot dragging, scraping across the uneven floor. The other heel was intact, clicking with every awkward, pigeon-toed step. A hypodermic needle full of some clear-ish fluid hung at ready in twisted, gnarled fingers. Sydney found herself staring at its face. The body was unmistakably female, but the face! The face was warped, a mound of burned and mutilated flesh, no distinguishable features on it other than a dirty nurses hat perched on top.

It was lurching towards her, twitching, gasping, moaning in its tormented walk.

Sydney ran back around the corner, turning the light off and clutching it to her. She held her breath, phone's static growing louder with the moment. Click… drag… click… drag… It rounded the corner, passing so close to Sydney it rustled the loose strands of hair around her face, made her nose crinkle at its putrid stench. Sydney could hear its short, pained breaths. It continued down the hall, passing through the open nurses' station. Sydney crept around the corner, only turning her flashlight on again once she had traveled a few feet.

The static faded, hall empty again, though in no way less nightmarish. She didn't feel safer as she shuffled along, breathing clipped, hands trembling. There was no more shuffle click shuffle click. That had been a nurse at some time. Sydney could feel it. She was not sure when, or what happened, but that had been a woman once upon a time, a respectable member of society. Sydney felt bad for her.

There was only one door unlocked down that stretch of hall, Sydney yanking the door open, hurrying in. Her shaking fingers found a latch, twisting it, locking herself in and that nurse creature out.

A long hall with metal doors on either side, closed, looking locked (though Sydney couldn't be sure until she tried), stretched out in front of her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to try those doors. They looked like cells, standing menacingly all around her. Sydney started forward, trying to hold her flashlight steady, each step crunching though she tried to walk light. It was failing, despite years of ballet helping her keep her balance on the precarious floor.

Approaching slowly, she pushed herself up on tiptoes, holding the hot flashlight up by her cheek to shine it in through the small, rectangular window on a door. There was a form sitting against the back wall, with straps bound tight around its torso, holding its arms around its ribs. Narrowing her eyes, Sydney continued to stare. Its face was in the same state at the nurse's, only it had a mouth, wide and open, like it was screaming constantly without sound. There was a faint crackle from her phone, but nothing more. It twitched, head lulling to the side beneath the beam of her light. All of that which incased it, Sydney had thought a straight jacket, but it was skin, translucent skin with veins and bruises shining through everywhere.

Swallowing back the bitter of bile, Sydney moved away from that door, checking the next one down. The same was in this one, too, though it was up, walking an awkward stagger, with no real arms or torso distinguished on its body, just those straps holding all that sickly flesh in place. Its legs bowed in upon one another, meeting at the knees and fanning outward from there, like a giraffe learning to walk. Sydney kept moving down the hall, barely pausing.

Stopping, blinking, Sydney moved back to the last door. She shined the light in. The person within looked to the side, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the light. The woman groaned. It was an actual woman. Sydney tried the door. It was locked. There was no latch, only a keyhole. Smiling, Sydney spoke in a hushed whisper.

"Hello? Are you alright?"

The woman nodded, struggling up the back padded wall of the cell before walking lopsidedly, like those creatures, towards the door. Soon she was leaning up against it, face right at that window. She had short dark hair and chapped, cracked lips, but forced a smile anyway. "Surviving."

That made Sydney laugh, if only briefly. She turned on the flashlight, only a dim and flickering light coming from inside that cell, from the swinging light bulb. "Where are the keys kept for the cells?"

The pale oval of the woman's face lifted upwards, dark eyes thoughtful. Then she smiled again, as though she had just seen exactly what she was looking for, and harbored that secret information. It made a shiver run up Sydney's spine, despite herself. "The director of the hospital keeps all the keys in his office."

Flipping out her cell phone, she scrolled over the picture she had taken of the map, marking on it as she went which doors were locked. "The door to the main foyer is locked."

"You can go upstairs and work through the treatment rooms to get to the other side of the hospital, and go to the main floor from there, or you can go downstairs into the basement and take the hallway across into the male wards and to the main room."

Sydney confirmed on her map, nodding. She marked the director's office with a little red circle, not bothering to memorize the route. She would just use the map she had taken a picture of as much as needed. It was a good resolution camera, anyway. No details were lost.

"I'll be back." Sydney spoke her promise, looking down each dark direction of the hallway. The woman inside smiled at her, and inched to the back of her cell. Even as Sydney turned away, pushing the button on her flashlight again, she could hear that wan voice drifting into the hall behind her.

"They are attracted to the light."

Nodding, Sydney kept on her way. She would remember to use that to her advantage.


	11. Snowblind

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill, any related locals, characters or ideologies. Those are the work of Konami and Team Silent. Give them mad props. I just write fanfiction about this stuff. There are a few original characters, though those are noticeable enough.

**Warning:** blood, gore, violence, language, dark themes, morbidity, sexual insinuations, etc, etc. Anything warned for on the back of a Silent Hill box and then some. M for a reason.

**Author's Note:** Ok, I know people at least look at this fic. Why no reviews? Tell me what you think, people. Please. It is driving me up a wall. Silent Hill V is amazing. Like, I am so addicted. It hurts. However, so much SH playing and music listening has inspired me. And now none of my other muses will work. Oh well.

**CALLING ALL SOULS**

**Chapter XI: Snowblind**

The police were at school again. Most of them were in blue informs with radios on them, their guns missing from their holsters because of the no firearms policy at school. They were interviewing people, taking down information on little pads. Heather sat at the center of the class, head slouched in her hand as she stared at the blank chalkboard. The administration was still looking for a substitute teacher to cover for Mrs. James, until they could get someone permanent hired. So, until then, the police would be interviewing all of her classes, hopefully for clues.

Heather turned her head. There was one cop in a suit, and old, ratty tweed suit, off to the side of the classroom, watching everything. He was overweight, with dark bags under his eyes. Heather stood up, leaving her bag hanging diagonally on her chair as she approached him. "You worked with Detective Dennings, didn't you?"

The man looked up, surprised. He was obviously in his own thoughts. Grumbling, the detective gave a dismissive motion with his hand, trying to concentrate on something distant. Heather leaned against the nearest desk, crossing her legs. She was wearing dark grey jeans today, with a red and black studded belt. She had a matching screened tank-top on, plus her usual bracelets and an added choker. Heather had always liked the color red.

"He saved Miss James from a guy trying to mug her once. She told me that she was walking home one night and this guy attacked her. Detective Dennings was down the street, off duty, and ran to her rescue."

Glancing over at her again, the man actually pulled out his own small pad of paper, scribbling a few things down. He seemed somewhat surprised. Whether it was over the fact that Detective Dennings and Mrs. James had a connection, or that Heather noticed a connection, she was not sure. The detective before her was a bit creepy, so Heather really didn't want to know. In fact, she wasn't even sure why she was talking to him.

"Don't tell anyone, but," His voice was so low Heather could barely hear it. She had to lean in closer and strain to make out his voice, "we've found evidence that suggests they have both run away to the same town. It's not too far from here, Silent Hill. People disappear there all the time. They were both born and raised there, and according to what we found in another case, were both planned victims for the serial killer, Alan Colefield."

Heather swallowed nervously. _The_ serial killer which had been making everyone in the city nervous, including her father (who wasn't from Silent Hill, so he was safe, a confusing point Heather noticed)? They locked all the doors and windows at all times because of that man, or so Heather thought, and that was why Heather couldn't just walk to school or take the bus like other kids. Well, since Alan Colefield died, her father had loosened up a little, but not much…

"I've got to get back to the station. Thanks for your help." He gave a feeble wave, walking out of the room, leaving Heather alone. Though she was relieved, somewhat, she wanted to know more. The detective seemed like a fount of information Heather was eager to tap.

So much for that chance.

Rolling her eyes, Heather went back to her seat, gazing half-heartedly at the chalkboard while trying to ignore the fact that it felt like the posters and photographs around the room were staring at her.

0 0 0 0 0

Water skimmed the surface of the concrete floor, Sydney timidly coming off the last safe stair, foot sliding into the water. There was something slicking the surface, glossy in some places while looking matte in others. It reminded her of mold. That thought had her stomach churning. She tried to ignore the gritty texture of the water clinging to her ankles, to the stench of it, like turned and rotten soup. There was no other way to the doctor's office than through the male healthy ward. Or at least she hoped there would be a way.

Lifting her flashlight, she shined the wide beam down the narrow hall, watching the ray tremble just as her hands did. The air was cold enough to make her shiver, a billow of white air flowing forth from parted lips. The water felt all the more disgusting since it was warm, giving it the feel of left-over soup still on the oven. Each step made a splashing sound, followed by the compaction, a sucking noise, of all the settlement beneath.

With how silent the long stretch of corridor was, each step echoed painfully loud, noise clinging to the still air.

Worst of all was the stench. Sydney clapped a hand over her lips and nose, pinching her nostrils shut in hopes to get it out. It smelled like someone had left their milk out for a month with the lid off, so it could stink up the whole basement, and put some rotten eggs next to it. She almost gagged at just the thought of what might be causing such a stench, forcing those thoughts out of her mind. Swallowing, she also forced back the bile, the bitter taste it left on the back of her tongue.

Slowly, she continued onward, throwing the beam this way and that, letting it dance across the murky liquid's surface, up the rust and mold streaked walls, across the squared ceiling with the dead fluorescent tubes, worthless, hanging features. Sydney was glad they did not work. With all the water, she'd probably have been electrocuted already.

With that thought in mind, Sydney quickened her pace. As much as she wanted to be out of this nightmare, having the power suddenly come back on would be catastrophic. She hadn't survived this long in hell just to have it taken away in the blink of an eye.

There was a split off in the hallway ahead. The sight of her flashlight beam not illuminating a spot of the wall, its remaining enshrouded in blackness, was the first sign of a branch off. She had to go straight. There was no way but straight. Sydney held her breath, teeth grating together as she tried to make her steps quieter.

No matter what, she couldn't turn off her flashlight. That was plunge her into utter darkness. There was no change of any other kind of illumination, and she was still not sure if they could navigate on sound alone. She was slow moving and noisy, so if they could… Sydney pressed her free hand over her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart on her palm, through her yellow sweater.

Slinging her pack around, Sydney fumbled through it, poking her finger on the tip of the knife. Cursing, almost dropping the flashlight, she finally managed to pull the knife out, clutching it close to her, starting forward again. That split in the hallway was getting closer, so much closer. She just had to go straight. The door on the other side, leading up to the men's ward, was not that far off. Just a little farther…

A loud splash came from her right. Sydney froze staring straight forward, eyes wide. She didn't dare to breathe, to move, anything. It was silent. The water stilled, murky surface becoming like tarnished but smooth glass. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head to the side, big eyes gazing into that side corridor.

There was nothing but still water.

Letting out a shaky sigh, she slid one foot forward. She stopped, shifting her weight forward, sliding the other foot, keeping as quiet as possible. Shifting her weight again, she pushed her other foot forward across the sludge encrusted floor, feeling something sharp brush the top of her food.

Stilling, she shined her light straight downwards.

There were four long strips of metal, like distorted fingers, right above where her foot was. She traced those back, to where they connected, bands of metal holding them together. Hooks held them into… skin. The flesh was mottled and swollen with moisture, looking long dead. She sucked in a breath through her nostrils, the putrid stench of decay catching in her nose.

It wasn't moving. She was afraid to move the light. All she could see right now were the metal claw-hands and a pale, disfigured arm reaching out from the murky depths. As much as she wanted to know what the arm was attached to, or if it was even attached to something, the fact that it might be asleep was too real a possibility to ignore. And if it woke up… those metal strips looked sharp enough to sever her foot, or at least get really close.

She couldn't risk it.

Holding her breath, she slid her foot backwards, edging around the claw, not daring even to let the air out of her lungs as she moved slowly past it. She kept her flashlight beam pointed before her, eyes wide, unfocused. Carefully, she went around the claw, continuing down the hallway. She could see the doorway not too far ahead. It was right there, so close, her flashlight beam growing larger and larger on it the closer she got.

Ripples traveled across the water, coming from behind her. Sydney paused, looking down, watching. There were more ripples, not from her now deathly-still body. Turning, she pointed the beam down.

The water erupted into chaos, metal claw-fingers exploding into the air, reaching for her in a flash. Sydney dropped the flashlight, it's landing with a loud splash, flickering and going out. Spinning, almost falling, she scrambled through the blackness, fumbling with the door. Its hinges were rusty, refusing to budge. With a cry, she slammed into the door, pulling back, pushing into it again when it finally budged, slowly creaking open.

Slipping in through the small gap, she slammed the door shut behind it, sagging back into the metal barrier with a shaking groan.

0 0 0 0 0

With a click, drag, click, drag, another nurse lumbered past the door, paying no attention to the one within the cell. Anna leaned against the wall, cheek resting on the degraded padding. There were no other sounds in the hall. The room was silent as well. That man, with the card, he was gone now. He had no doubt been able to make it out of the institution without any issues, any hindrance.

That was just the aura about him, anyway. If she could feel it, she was sure the creatures could too.

Sighing, she looked up at the door, dark eyes locking on the little window on its front. For a little while, the hallway had been noisy, after that girl's passing. Things had settled down. The cages were not so rattled.

Anna just hoped she was alright. She had been itching to get out of this cell for a while now.

0 0 0 0 0

His dreams were filled with Alessa. They were not pleasant dreams. Her body was broken and burned, bandages soaked with puss and blood, which would not stop, no matter how many times they freshened her wrappings. That was how Alessa had grown up, suffering, ever since that fire.

And in every dream, he lost her. She would vanish and he could not find her, and frantically he would search, every time to no avail.

Aleister woke with a jolt, sitting upright in his bed, breathing hard. A thin glaze of sweat was on his skin. Trembling, he sank back down onto the firm mattress, head hitting the pressed, old pillow. Though this was his room, his apartment, had been for years, it still felt like he was sleeping in an unfamiliar place, which his body, his mind, was loathe to allow. His best rest always occurred in the hospital room, or sometimes in the chapel room where Alessa sometimes stayed as well.

Her presence still lingered on the air there.

Slowly, the fog cleared from his eyes and mind, leaving his thoughts crisp and clear, ready to deal with the hell outside the safe haven of his apartment. His head lulled to the side, black hair pooling about his face, obscuring his eyes for a moment. Quickly, Aleister brushed the strands back, squinting his eyes at the clock.

It was early, before 5 am. Right on the hour, service would start in the chapel. Aleister did not want to take Mark there. Not yet. There was too much else he needed to do first, and with Mark's skills as a detective, he might even be able to locate the others he required for the ritual. Everything had to be perfect, and Aleister planned on using every resource he had to insure that.

Pulling on a robe, wrapping his arms around his torso, he went out into the living room, only to see that Mark was already awake. He was sitting, facing the bookshelf. Aleister could only see the back of his head, golden blocks mussed up by sleeping on them while they were still damp. Not that anyone would see him. Anyone but Aleister, at least.

Almost everyone else had left or changed by now.

"I want to go to the police station."

The voice was quiet, distant sounding. Aleister paused outside of the bathroom, hand hovering over the handle. Even though Mark had just showered the night before, he still looked like he had been through hell. There were still dark shadows beneath his eyes, which were bloodshot. His skin was grey in an ashen sort of way, showing through his golden tan. His hands were shaking.

Aleister turned away, going quietly into the bathroom.

The police station would be their next destination. He could probably unearth some much needed information while they were there, too.


End file.
